


Wonderful Things: A Good Omens Celebration Collection

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale preserved in sculpture for all time, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Comedy, Comfort, Corsetry, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Crossdressing, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Faked Death, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Folklore, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Crowley (Good Omens), Kink Negotiation, Knitting, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Marriage, Modern Era, Other, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Penis In Vagina Sex, Rescue, Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Transgender, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, and crowley COULD NOT be happier, corset kink, ftm!Crowley, mtf!Aziraphale, snake-based wordplay, transmasc crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 32,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: The collected stories from a range of prompts for the Good Omens celebration in May 2020.Rating and tags will be updated as stories are added. Particularly notable tags and/or cw's will appear in each chapter's summary.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 240
Kudos: 176
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. Paper

**Author's Note:**

> The collection title is from Howard Carter's words upon discovering the tomb of Tutankhamun. Because that's what finding this fandom feels like <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale ponders the influences of light, heat and oxygen on both books and himself.
> 
> Can be read as platonic or very early romance.

It was an unfortunate thing, Aziraphale sometimes thought, that old books smelled so good.

It all came down to wood, really. Old parchments didn't make one pause and breathe deep and taste the years in the back of one's throat as though they were heavy wine. Quipu was hardly worth writing home about. Papyrus smelled nice enough, but it simply wasn't the same.

It was a terrible burden; people came into his shop and were _happy_. All because of a silly chemical process. Well, being happy was a silly chemical process in and of itself, but Aziraphale found it quite frustrating to have to try and cover over a _particular_ chemical process, but only during opening hours, as he liked to enjoy his collection when others weren't permitted in, which at least was most of the time. Nearly all of the time, these days.

He had been inventorying for six months, and frankly saw no end in sight, but he knew who to blame for _that_.

Crowley and his distractions were another matter, though. The vinegar-vanilla smell in his shop was, well, essentially that. Expose paper to light, heat and oxygen, and over time the linkages between cells would break down, the lignin grew friable, and acetic acid would be formed as a byproduct. And, thus, the smell of old books that lingered on his palate no matter what.

Light, oxygen, heat. The things of life; the things one was exposed to when, say, a demon showed up and suggested an Arrangement. Or needed to be thanked for crepes. Or rescued ones' books, or drove too fast, or suggested breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, oh just a _little_ nightcap angel, hardly a drop, and then one came to in the morning with a lampshade on one's head and a mysterious article of ladies' undergarments somewhere in the shop, just waiting to be found.

(And, more like than not, returned to Crowley with a sharp reminder that Aziraphale ran a _bookshop_ dear boy, not a laundry.)

The light of day after a rainstorm that made a rain-bow.

The fresh air when one walked out into the night after a fine concert, and it had rained, and the world smelled of petrichor and promise.

Heat from a sun, heat from a friend's hand on one's sleeve, a warm day and a pub garden that overlooked a river, and endless pint glasses in the sun while a cricket game provided a lovely background hum.

The things that changed one, sure as lignin decayed, and vinegar was formed (so to speak), and a book became an old and valued friend.

“Are you even listening to me, Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale looked up, and tugged his waxed jacket into neatness. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, dear boy. Woolgathering.”

“What were you thinking about?” Crowley asked.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Just old books. You know me.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Of course you were. C'mon, I know there's a great little pub around here somewhere. The carpet'll give you a migraine and no one will talk to you at any point, you'll love it.”

“I'm sure I will, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Now, what were you chattering on about?”

Crowley thought for a moment as they continued along the trail that, Aziraphale was fairly sure, was nowhere near a pub.

“ _Lobsters_!” he said, and punched the air in victory, having regained his train of thought. “Lobsters. Your actual insect, like. Just...just got a snorkel. In a way.”

“Oh for heaven's sake,” Aziraphale said, and set his thoughts about light and heat and air and books and changing aside for a good, proper argument on the classification of crustaceans.


	2. Cotton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds an old blanket, and Crowley tells him how he got it.
> 
> Set post-end-of-show, as they're moving to the South Downs. Can be read as platonic or a budding romance.

Crowley was asleep on the sofa. Which meant Aziraphale rather thought he could be given free reign to be as soppy as he liked, without a demon either demanding more affection or begging him to tone it down, as Crowley's mood dictated. (Mostly it was the former unless they were in public, then it was definitely the latter. Aziraphale rather adored this new way of pushing Crowley's buttons, it must be said.)

They were in the Mayfair flat not packing. There was no need to do such a silly thing; they wouldn't be _moving_ as such. Simply that the belongings they wanted to move to their new cottage would miraculously appear there, and the belongings they no longer wanted would miraculously appear in a variety of nearby charity shops.

(Aziraphale had found a stack of antique tea towels he thought he could part with, and thought he was doing very well on the donation/keep axis, personally. Besides, they would be retaining the bookshop as a little London bolthole, and also to continue to irritate anyone who wished to obtain real estate in Soho.)

Crowley was a little less attached to the things of his life – well, some of the things – but he had opted to keep a stack of blankets destined to be draped over sofas or settled in corners, nice and comfortable things for demons and angels and snakes to cuddle into. Looking for something to drape over Crowley's sleeping form, Azirpahale pulled a light cotton blanket off the top of the stack, and opened it out.

It was old – incredibly old. Preserved-by-magic old, so old and so preserved by magic that it had a good deal of Crowley embedded in it. Aziraphale paused, holding it in his arms, and rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. It was fine, soft cotton, and it was clear Crowley had spun the warp and weft. When he was a she and she sat with the women and worked, hearing their gossip and plans and all the secrets of their heart. Her clever fingers had worked a spindle, then worked the loom, and she had kept the results all these years.

It was oddly touching, and something Aziraphale wouldn't necessarily have expected. He raised a fold to smell, and breathed in only the scent of Crowley's flat, nothing unusual about it.

Shaking his head at himself, Aziraphale tucked the blanket around the demon, who immediately snuggled a little deeper. Aziraphale simply _had_ had to smile, and of course indulge in squeezing Crowley's shoulder. Poor, sleepy demon. Well, he could take a little rest, and Aziraphale could read – he'd brought three emergency books with him precisely for this reason – and he could ask about the blanket when Crowley woke.

It took a few hours, but the demon did begin to stir, sighing and making little smacky noises with his mouth, curling up tight then stretching out. Azirpahale had learned to recognize the signs of Crowley's naps ending, and he carefully put his bookmark in place, set his book aside, and watched his demon wake up.

“Oh, hi angel.” Crowley grinned at him, and Aziraphale couldn't stop an indulgent smile. “Did I sleep long?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale said, watching him twist this way and that, working out the kinks of sleeping on the world's most fashionable and least comfortable sofa.

(Aziraphale would be choosing the furniture for the cottage. Crowley didn't even put up token resistance to this.)

“Oh, you found this,” Crowley said, when he noticed what he'd been sleeping under. He smiled and ran his hand along a stripe in the blanket, a little caress. “Did you recognise it?”

“I'm sorry, ought I have?” Aziraphale asked. “It's old, I know that much.”

Crowley's smile grew. “It's all right, maybe you wouldn't. It _is_ old, angel.”

“You made it, didn't you?” Aziraphale asked softly. “It feels like you did.”

“Got it again,” Crowley said.

“Is that why you saved it?” It didn't take so very much in the way of miracles to keep old fabric whole and supple and useful – Aziraphale himself could attest to that quite well – but one did have to put an effort forth.

Crowley shook his head, his smile gone a bit funny. “No. Not really. It's...memories, you know?”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, because he did. “Which ones?”

“The Ark,” Crowley said. “Not many good memories from that time, but I was always fond of this. I'm not the first person to sleep under it.”

“The children,” Aziraphale guessed, smiling. “Of course.”

“And you,” Crowley said, unable to stop a grin. “You really don't remember?”

“What? No!” Aziraphale was genuinely startled, enough to get up and move over to the sofa, where Crowley obligingly shifted his feet to give Aziraphale room to sit, and touch the length of cotton again. “I'm so sorry, Crowley. I truly don't remember.”

“Ah, it's not important...”

“It is to me!” Aziraphale insisted. “I only slept once on the Ark!”

“I know.” Crowley's smile grew kinder. It was doing that a lot more often lately. “I found you, all mixed in with the sheep and the straw. You were laid out, snoring like anything.”

“I do not _snore_ ,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“How would you know, you're asleep,” Crowley pointed out reasonably. “No wonder you were knocked out, it was halfway through and we were wearing ourselves out keeping the kids hidden and fed and played with all while not being seen ourselves.” They'd hardly seen each _other_ , usually one taking a shift with the littles while the other took care of food and clean clothes and such things, all while avoiding miracles as much as possible, so as not to get noticed.

Aziraphale gave a little shudder, remembering. “They were good children, but all that time inside a ship, no fresh air, nothing...”

Crowley nodded. “You needed that nap. And, well. Couldn't have you getting chilly.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, something small and warm in his chest. “Certainly not, my dear.” He touched the soft cotton, and that Crowley's foot was under his hand too was utter coincidence. “If you're quite rested, though, well, I was thinking – dinner? My treat.”

“Quite rested,” Crowley mimicked, and got up, throwing off the blanket. “Where to, angel?”

“Oh, I was thinking Portuguese,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. He picked up the cotton blanket and started to fold it carefully while they planned their evening. Best keep it neat and to hand, the next time one of them took a nap, he thought. Wouldn't do to let the other get chilly, and all.


	3. Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley dresses Aziraphale in a leather corset and stockings, to see how they both feel about it.
> 
> Cross-dressing, a romantic sex-positive asexual relationship, exploring corset and cross-dressing kinks, and just the tiniest hint of a D/s dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this isn't *precisely* nsfw, but it does involve kink exploration on the ace spectrum, so there's that?

“Oh gosh,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not me at _all_.”

Crowley came up behind him and slipped his arms around Aziraphale’s newly-curved-in waist. “I _know_ ,” he purred. “But isn’t it fun?”

Aziraphale blinked and touched the leather corset that Crowley had somehow talked (and laced) him into. “I. Don’t know?”

“C'mon angel,” Crowley said, his hands all over the skin-warmed leather, caressing Aziraphale’s belly and chest and down to his hips, now flared out. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

Precisely as both of them had expected, he’d slithered over two days after their phone conversation, bottle of wine in tail, and they had hunkered down together. He had spent three days watching Azirpahale first make, then eat, baked goods. But one can only consume so many welshcakes, even if one is an ethereal being (ret.), so they had to find other amusements.

And, after all, one had to fill the time for the first sourdough proving _somehow_.

In their case, they had tried human things. _Fun_ human things, of course – neither of them saw a need to do dishes, or iron clothes, or scrub the kitchen floor even after Crowley had dropped a bag of flour. That was what miracles were _for_.

Which is why, what had started out with baking, and Aziraphale with a bit of flour on his nose, had ended with arms around each other and snogging like teenagers. It wasn’t quite as though the pandemic had hit a fast-forward button – Aziraphale was still adorably modest and shy and Crowley still mostly said ‘ngk’ rather than real words – but that, on the heels of the Apoca-not, well. Some things became clear.

Snogging had progressed to other things, which they agreed were all right but perhaps not quite the expected revelation. But there really wasn’t anything else to do. And humans had got quite creative about sex, and they were two creatures dedicated to the rococo details of life, so why not try a few of the optional add-ons?

And that was why, a month after Crowley slithered into the bookshop, Aziraphale was stood in front of his mirror in a leather corset, thigh-high stockings and heels. He had at least argued Crowley down from stilettos when it came to the shoes, and thought the block heel gave rather a nice shape to his calf.

“Doesn’t it feel nice?” Crowley asked.

“Er, well. No, not really.” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t mind wearing it for a litlte while, for you, but I really don’t think it’s my _thing_.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Crowley said, slipping his hand down to touch Aziraphale’s thigh, right before his stockings began. “Can you stand a little longer, angel? You really are quite the treat in this.”

Aziraphale smiled, and touched the leather pressed tight to his body. “For you, I think I can, dear boy. We can discuss what you’ll do for me in return.”

“Hngk,” Crowley said.


	4. Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Human AU, of all things! A little story about how it could have happened, if they had been people and not an angel and a demon.
> 
> Romantic relationship, Jewish!Crowley, Autistic!Aziraphale.
> 
> (I think Crowley is sort of inherently Jewish in canon, but this lets me add on cultural trappings as well...)

It begins, as it will end, in a garden, with an apple.

Aziraphale Fell ('Don't blame me, it's an old family name.') and Anthony J Crowley met for the first time on Primrose Hill. Aziraphale was having rather a nice picnic and Anthony was giving himself heat stroke on an unusually warm August day. When he flung himself down in the shadow of a tree to try and cool off a bit, he hadn't realized that there was a young man on the other side of said tree, until he was being politely offered, in order, a drink of water, sun cream, and an apple. 

“Perhaps if you weren't in head-to-toe black...” Aziraphale also offered, in what he thought was a tactful way.

Considering that Aziraphale was dressed like E.M. Forster's entire oeuvre, Crowley did not dignify his words with a response. He did accept the water, sun cream, and apple though. All three were very nice.

They got to talking, as one does when one is waiting for their core temperature to fall to normal (as in Anthony's case) and when one is a little bit in crush with the young man they've just met (both of them). Anthony ran a plant nursery, and Aziraphale a bookshop. Both came from money, both had had the expected education of their class, both had hated every moment.

“Well, to be fair, I didn't _mind_ the idea of Oxford,” Aziraphale explained earnestly. “I like reading. I like _learning_ , you know. I just...never seemed to do it in the right way.”

“I know what you mean,” Anthony said. “That was me and physics. I loved it. But I don't think it loved me.” He made a face. “At least, my lecturers didn't.”

“Well, I think they were very foolish,” Aziraphale said, and smiled at him. “What was your favourite thing about physics?”

“Stars,” Anthony said promptly. “I'd've been an astrophysicist, if I wasn't dumb.”

“I doubt very much that you're dumb,” Aziraphale said softly. “Ill-suited to the system around you, perhaps, but never dumb.”

“Who's your favourite poet?” Anthony challenged back. He was not sure how he felt about being so transparent to this Aziraphale creature.

“Rather appropriate to our surroundings, actually. Blake.”

Anthony lit up, and Aziraphale lit up, and that was that – between stars, and Blake, and their quiet lives and the way they were two sides of the same coin, they were soon inseparable.

Later, Anthony admitted his mother had disowned him, and his father barely spoke to him. It wasn't that he was queer, though that was part of it, or a disappointment, though that was part of it. “I'm not what she wanted,” he said quietly.

“You're what _I_ want,” Aziraphale told him, and he wasn't quiet at all about it.

Even later, Aziraphale called Anthony late one night.

“I've done it,” he said, voice shaking.

“Wha? Done what? Don't tell me you got drunk and got a tattoo, angel, please,” Anthony said. That was _his_ thing _._

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “No. No, I'm afraid not. I. I told my parents I'd not be speaking to them again.”

“Wait, _what_?”

“Oh, well, you know. What we've talked about. You're right, of course, Anthony. They're...they're not good for me. Rather cruel, actually. It. When I had dinner with them last Sunday, you remember, when I went all the way out to theirs, and said I was going to spend the night, er. I. Didn't. I _couldn't_. Not after...after what they said to me at dinner.”

“Oh, angel,” Anthony said softly.

“I know we've been speaking about it. You've been so patient with me, and so good for me.”

“All I did was listen,” Anthony said. “And maybe show you how you _ought_ to be treated.” With love, for starters. With kindness. With respect for his body, and his life, and the things he needed. Aziraphale needed things just so, and Anthony could work with that. Could be patient; it wasn't Aziraphale's fault. Just the way his brain worked; nothing in the whole world wrong with that. And even beyond that; his Aziraphale was shy and bookish and a bit chubby, and Anthony adored all of that. He really did, no matter what a production he made about being dragged to the opera.

“Still.” A quiet sound, as of one wiping away tears. “I'm so sorry, I know it's late but – could you come over? I don't...I find I don't quite. Want to be alone. Just now. In fact, I'd really rather be with _you_.”

Anthony didn't quite discover teleportation, but he definitely set some kind of record, getting to Aziraphale's flat that night.

He didn't ever really leave.

There were good times and bad ones, as in the way of most lives. But they were in love, and that was one of the best things.

Aziraphale proposed, but Anthony already had a ring in his pocket, just waiting for the right moment. It was ridiculous, and perfect, there on the steps of the National Gallery, Aziraphale impulsive for perhaps the first time in his life. Afterwards, they went out for crepes, and got champagne-drunk and kissed an awful lot.

And now, their story doesn't end, but the first part of it draws to a close. They're in a garden, one that Anthony designed for a friend of his. Their wedding is small, but that's all right. Their friends aren't very many, and are close and precious.

They stand under a chuppah in the garden, roses in bloom and the air perfumed. The blessings are said over them, for Anthony is Jewish, a birthright from his mother he refuses to give up. Aziraphale isn't much of anything, but he loves the beauty of the religion, and is wearing a brand-new kippah, and very proud of it too. And it makes Anthony happy, and he would do a lot more than talk to a rabbi who encourages his questions, and plan to host Seder next year to make Anthony happy.

Anthony steps on a glass, the sound of breaking a reminder to them, a leavening of their perfect joy that is needed and wanted and welcomed, for they both know that no joy is perfect, really. But they will do the best they can, in their life together.

“Mazel tov!” the rabbi tells them, and Anthony bursts into tears and Aziraphale throws his arms around him and it's done. They are two made one.

Neither of them much like wedding cake, so they serve apple pies to their guests, cutting the first slice together, and they feast in the garden.


	5. Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe as my story A Little Place in the Country. Aziraphale meditates on feeling safe in Crowley's study.
> 
> Female-presenting Crowley and Aziraphale, mention of the trauma and abuse Aziraphale dealt with in the past and of Crowley's past loneliness and trauma (very lightly hinted at).

Aziraphale settled into her chair with a contented sigh. There was a stack of books just beside her, as per usual, but she didn’t reach for them, not just yet. It was far too nice to simply drink in the world around her.

They were in Crowley’s study, as they often were these days. It was a funny old thing – of course she’d sorted out her library years ago, and it wasn’t as though Crowley was barred from coming in there. The demon had her own loveseat tucked in a corner, with a few of her things nearby, and she definitely had no qualms about coming to rustle Aziraphale out when she was bored, or it was growing late, or any of a hundred other things.

But when they were _together_ , they were in here, in Crowley’s wood-paneled study, a soft and gentle cocoon for the both of them.

The sun hadn’t really risen that day, it being a mid-December gloom, but they had plenty of lights about the place. And they had just sent Annie and Aelis on their way after a wonderful tea together. They had come by for a proper catch-up, their first trip south since moving to Scotland. Of course there were texts and phone calls and such things, but nothing quite compared to pulling Annie into a hug and feeling her brain shut down, overwhelmed by butch beauty.

They had hosted in the great hall, and had a wonderful day, and it was equally wonderful to wave the children on their way, close the door, and be with just one another again. It was practically instinctual to come to the study and settle in with cups of tea and their own quiet things to do.

Aziraphale sipped from her mug and took it all in – the dark outside the window, trees just visible beyond it. She felt wonderfully safe; still a new feeling. Even years after she had turned her back on Heaven, feeling safe was still a habit she was getting into. The trees helped.

Their gentle protection was echoed inside; the old wood paneling glowed darkly in the lamplight, and Aziraphale often felt not unlike she was sitting inside a tree herself – a very nice one, of course, with a comfortable chair and books and her beloved demon grizzling at something on the internet, draped across her throne. Even her library didn’t feel as safe as being in here.

“Everything all right, angel?” Crowley asked, looking up from her phone.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, blinking a little and coming back to herself. “Just…enjoying the room, really.” She smiled and laid a hand on the smooth wood of the wall next to her chair. “I love it in here.”

“Mmm, yes. It’s nice,” Crowley said, only half paying attention.

“It’s safe,” Aziraphale said softly.

_That_ got her attention _._ “Angel? What d'you mean?”

Aziraphale met her eyes, smile growing. Well, she couldn’t help herself – Crowley was beautiful. And, with the guests gone, not wearing her dark glasses, even though they did admittedly make her very dashing. “Just what I said. Oh, I don’t feel unsafe in our house. Not precisely. But being in here – with you – it’s different.” Her smile grew. “Can you feel it? It’s not even something I get from my library.”

Crowley frowned. “Do you want to swap, then?”

“No, love.” Aziraphale ran her fingers over the cover of her book, the fabric rough on her fingertips. “I think it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t feel the same, I mean.”

For all that Crowley was absolutely welcome at any time in the library, she really didn’t spend much time there, and Aziraphale couldn’t find it in her to be sorry about it. Of _course_ she loved Crowley, with all of her being, but it was so nice to have a place that was hers. For centuries the bookshop had been _hers_ , where she could be herself and, except for when Gabriel was visiting, she could exist free of Heaven’s disappointed gaze. There had been nothing like being alone in the fragrant silence of the shop, and that was repeated in her quiet library. That was like being inside a tree too, though lined with books instead of wood, and far more hidden away. The view was of a tiny, grassy nook where even Crowley couldn’t find much to do, and Aziraphale felt tucked away and forgotten and she quite liked it that way.

So it was safe in a different way, she reckoned; the safety of being perfectly alone. But here she could feel safe and protected, and be with her beloved. It wasn’t that Crowley wasn’t judgemental – she very loudly judged Aziraphale’s dress sense at every opportunity – it was just that even her opinions on tartan were a result of seeing Aziraphale, and knowing her, and loving her so much that sometimes Aziraphale got a slight headache and had to ask Crowley to please go for a walk and get a little distance.

“All right, angel. Just say the word, though.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “But I like it the way it is, I promise.” She hesitated. “Do you ever…ever want to be alone?”

Crowley set her phone aside, propped her chin on her hand, and regarded Aziraphale thoughtfully. “Like you do, you mean?”

“Er, well. Yes?”

Crowley tilted her head, the red of her hair catching glints from the lamp. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think I do. Been alone long enough. ’m set for a few millennia.”

“All right, darling,” Aziraphale said softly. Later, she would have to be sure to give Crowley extra cuddles, for both their sakes. “Good.”

Crowley smiled at her, and winked, and went back to her phone while Aziraphale finally opened her book, safe in the wood-lined room and the glow of the lamp and held in Crowley’s heart.


	6. Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is captured, and Crowley rescues him for the first time. If only he knew what he was in for...
> 
> Set in the past, pre-romance and at the beginning of their friendship, a little light h/c for Aziraphale with Crowley tending him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn’t know today also had the prompt rescue when I wrote this. But what would a Good Omens Celebration be without a little rescue and h/c?

“I think you’ll find there’s been a terrible mistake,” Aziraphale said, as they clapped the irons around his ankles. “If you’d just consult the paperwork, or perhaps speak to a supervisor…”

The look he got made the next words wither on his tongue, in what was probably a first.

Oh, he was such a fool! He wasn’t a _complete_ newcomer to Earth, after all, he’d been here since the beginning! But now, not even a thousand years on, and he was getting captured by humans and dragged off to certain discorporation. The _paperwork_ there would be! And he didn’t like to think what Gabriel would say to him needing a whole new body so soon after he got the last one. It was just, well, he couldn’t let that child be _trampled_. _Humans_ couldn’t get new bodies.

Well, he might not be able to get one either, at least not for some time, and then so much would have changed in the world! It was bad enough coming back to learn that humans had come up with agriculture and city-states, who _knew_ what he might miss this time? It was just awful to think of.

And as a field agent, of course, Aziraphale liked to keep on top of things. That was why he enjoyed food so much. You could learn a lot about humans from what they ate, and of course the rituals of dining and that’s to say nothing of the drinking. That it tasted good was simply a bonus.

Apparently one of the things humans had also invented was kidnapping and chains and shackles. And long pokey things to prod a body along when the pain from said shackles grew to be really _quite_ noticeable. Aziraphale supposed the chains would be heavy for a human, too, but at least he was spared that annoyance.

“I feel I must tell you – if you harm me in any way, it will go quite badly for you!” he said, trying a different tactic. Heaven hadn’t really swooped down for him before – and with the whole flaming sword deal, that probably had been for the best – but there was a first time for everything!

One of his captors snorted, and prodded him to move faster through the warren of cellars and fouled streets. Honestly, his robe was _ruined_ , and that wasn’t to speak of his skin. The irons did rub so…

“You will,” Aziraphale repeated. “I’m sure if you let me go right now, my…my side will go easy on you. Might even look the other way if I put in a good word.”

“Shut up,” another captor said.

“I warned you,” Aziraphale said, flagging his failing courage. “I just – I _warned_ you, never let it be said you didn’t know what a load of trouble you’ll be in if I’m discorporated! Or even injured!” He did have to be careful with the healing miracles for himself, they were really cracking down on that Upstairs. They just didn’t under _stand_ how delicate these human bodies could be!

“Really?” said the first. “When’re they showing up then? These people who’ll make us regret dirtying your fine, expensive robes?” He laughed.

It wasn’t even an evil cackle. It would have been pleasant, under other circumstances. Aziraphale found this indescribably annoying.

“Right now.”

Everyone looked up at that, and the small clap of thunder that accompanied it.

“Who’re _you_?” someone demanded.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale quickly covered his delight – what angel was delighted to see a _demon_ after all? “What’re you doing here?”

“Hush up, angel, I’m rescuing you,” Crowley said.

He was rather dressed for the part – sleek black robes, a fashionable small turban, everything very _a la mode_ , or at least Aziraphale was pretty sure it was. He looked dangerous and beautiful, all in red and black, and very, very attention-getting.

“ _Rescuing_ him?” The man who was as good their leader as any curled his mouth into a smile, and clouted Aziraphale hard on the back. Taken off-guard, he fell to his hands and knees.

Crowley’s face grew very still, and very cold. “Yes,” he said, and snapped his fingers, and a lot of things happened at once. Including a rather bright light that made Aziraphale close his eyes and turn away, and when he opened them again, he had lost his chains and was sitting on the floor of a small, but very clean and cozy room. There was a low bed in one corner, and a small plant in another, and not very much else.

Except, of course, for the demon.

“Crowley!”

Crowley sketched a bow, and then knelt down by Aziraphale. “Let me see your wrists.”

“I – what?” Without thinking, Aziraphale extended his arms. He pushed his sleeves up and winced, for the skin on his wrists was bruised and bleeding. “Oh dear….”

Crowley grunted and encircled one of Aziraphale’s wrists with his hand.

Pressure. Holding him. Yanking him. Tight. Hurting.

Without thinking, Aziraphale jerked his hand back, so hard he pulled Crowley off-balance and himself, both of them tumbling.

Aziraphale gasped, coming back to himself, clutching his wrist. Oh, he was dreadful – after Crowley had rescued him! Sure he hadn’t _asked_ for the rescue, but still! And now Aziraphale was so – so _rude_! No wonder he was left to his own devices on Earth.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, sitting up, moving to be just out of reach, holding his hands up. “I’m so sorry, angel. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Oh now that was just about a thousand percent too close to the truth, so Aziraphale did what he did best, and lied. “Oh, no, I know dear boy,” he said, as his heartbeat didn’t calm because he didn’t have one. “Forgive me. I just – my blood. What if it was like holy water? I shouldn’t want you to be…be burned.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and he looked down – but no, his hand was fine, even with a faint smear on it. “All right here,” he said, holding his hand up. “But I guess you can heal yourself.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale admitted, and looked up at Crowley through his lashes. “We’re…checked, on those things. And I’ve been told I indulge myself too much.”

“ _Indulge_?” Crowley spat.

“Suffering is good for the soul,” Aziraphale parroted, because that’s what he’d been told. “And the humans heal eventually.” And so did he. Eventually.

“Some of them. Some of them get sick and die,” Crowley snapped.

“You could heal me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed, and held out his hand. “I can heal you,” he agreed. “Let me see.”

Aziraphale put his wrist in Crowley’s hand, noticing that this time the demon kept his hand open. Crowley bent over him, his hair falling down in a soft sweep that made Aziraphale shiver. It was that beautiful.

A soft, cool touch – Crowley was _blowing_ on his hand! It felt very nice, actually, a soft little exhale, and torn and bruised skin healed.

Crowley tended to Aziraphale’s wrists and ankles, never curling his hand around, but always holding very lightly and very gently, and Aziraphale ignored that it made him want to cry. He took refuge in fashion.

“Oh, my robe,” he said sadly, looking at the tears and the dirt. It had been pristine white silk with lovely embroidery.

“Oh, well, can’t let that go,” Crowley said in a warm voice, and blew again, and of course the robe was as good as new.

“Oh! Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. How could he not?

Crowley, who surely didn’t know that this was just the first of many, many, _many_ times this scenario would play out, smiled, then scowled. “Don’t thank me. Couldn’t have you sitting there looking like that and being all miserable.”

Aziraphale, who was getting an inkling that this was going to become a pattern, thought about pointing out that making an angel miserable would be a plus in Crowley’s book. He decided against it, discretion being the better part of valour. Also, he didn’t want to chance Crowley undoing the demonic working.


	7. Wool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale knits Crowley a little snake sweater. A snumper, if you will.

Everyone more or less expected Aziraphale to be able to knit. A nice old queen, stuck at some indeterminate period in the past? Oh, he would definitely have strong opinions on the execution of Fisherman's rib and set-in sleeves. Probably had a needle collection for the ages.

He could, and he did, and he still used some old steel needles (which he persisted in calling pins) he'd purchased in 1823, but the thing was, Crowley could knit too.

He had learned well before Aziraphale had, in fact, moving easily from naalbinding to knitting; one couldn't pass well for a woman if one didn't have at least some skill at keeping one's entire family in clothing. And then, well, when you wind up spending a very dull fortnight in a forest somewhere with your sworn enemy, it makes sense to miracle up some needles and yarn and offer a lesson or three.

It had been quite companionable, the two of them sitting 'round the hearth, needles clicking away. Aziraphale was always quite cute when he concentrated, head bent over, face just a little bit scrunched as his fingers found the new movements.

So they could both knit, and they did so throughout history, for necessity and for the pleasure of it. Oh, they were predictable in some ways – Aziraphale loved to make thick shawls and jumpers and socks, all of lovely warm yarn, as soft to the touch as his feathers (Crowley could now confirm the comparison) and with a little miracle to keep it from pilling if you looked at it funny. Winter often found him snug before the fire in a creation of his own making, skilful in its simplicity.

Crowley, conversely, excelled at lace, and had made no less than five wedding-ring shawls. (He'd pulled the latest through his own ring to prove its fine-ness, and nearly had a little cry. There were a number of mobile network outages and coins glued to sidewalks and anti-homeless architecture demonically destroyed _that_ evening.) He had never yet miscounted a short row. And his colourwork was flawless, every time, even if it was entirely done in shades of red, black, and sometimes some greys for contrast.

So they knitted for themselves, and those who needed it (the box of caps for preemies that Aziraphale sent off regularly often had tiny hats he definitely did not remember knitting, but he said nothing of it), and of course they knitted for each other.

Sensibly, of course; neither of them were going to put that amount of effort into a cardigan or a jumper that the other would hate and never wear. Wouldn't do to invite the Sweater Curse into their lives. So Crowley had specially purchased cream-coloured wool and learned to make a shawl collar, and Aziraphale had carefully, quietly, studied Vivienne Westwood, and bought fine black wool. He didn't really understand the appeal of the laddering and holes, but when he'd presented the oversized thing to Crowley, he was met with such joy, he reckoned he didn't need to understand it.

(And then there was the time he'd made Crowley some thigh-high socks to keep his legs warm through a nasty winter, and Crowley had instead paired them with a minidress and nearly caused a riot on Carnaby Street.

He'd come home covered in fashionable glory and chilly thighs to an exasperated angel, pointedly wearing his new jumper and with blankets already warmed before the fire.)

All of this was to say, there was certainly precedent for what Crowley was requesting. In a way.

“Of course I'll make you one, darling,” Aziraphale said puzzled. “But I'm not sure it'll have the effect you want it to.”

“Don't care,” Crowley said happily, gazing at the reference photos he'd collected for Aziraphale.

“Well, perhaps I can add a miracle, to have it actually _produce_ heat...”

“Whatever.” Crowley grinned. “Got other ways to keep warm.”

“My _dear_ ,” Aziraphale said, but he was smiling. “I just – you do know that snakes don't produce their own body-heat?”

“Well I'd hope so, seeing as I _am_ one,” Crowley sniffed.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said after a moment's thought. “But I suppose you'd know better than I do. Anyway, darling – of course I'd be happy to knit you a snumper.” Goodness knew it would be easy enough – just a knit tube for Crowley to slither into. In black, of course, but perhaps he could add some red stripes here and there. Nothing as daring as an argyle, that wouldn't do at all. But something to make it a little fancier.

Smiling, Aziraphale went to check his stash, already picturing Crowley in snake form, handsome as could be in his little jumper, curled up by Aziraphale's desk while he worked late into the night.


	8. Bronze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While at an art gallery, Crowley and Aziraphale stumble upon a sculpture one of Aziraphale's old lovers made of him.
> 
> (Romantic, sexual relationship with a playful threat of sadistic play to happen after the end of the story.)

“Oh yes. Oh, I see it now,” Crowley said, voice utterly filled with delight.

“Please stop,” Aziraphale said.

“Can’t _believe_ I hadn’t seen it before. Look, he even got your dimple right!”

“I do not have a dimple _there_ ,” Aziraphale said peevishly.

“How would you know, you can’t even see there without a mirror and a week of yoga to limber up first.” Crowley continued to circle the bronze statue, not unlike how he circled Aziraphale himself.

Funny, that.

“Honestly, you’re being a _pill_ ,” Aziraphale grumbled. “It hardly looks like me.”

“I beg to differ,” Crowley said. “Oh, gosh, you never make an Effort like that for me.”

“Oh, well. You only need ask, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I thought you liked my…Effort.”

Crowley pecked his cheek. “I do. I love it very much, in fact. But I like this one too. I didn’t know you ever had a cock, darling.”

Aziraphale had long ago worked the small miracle that meant they were ignored by everyone around them, which was probably a good thing. Wouldn’t do at _all_ to give someone an MI, it always got rather noisy, not to mention embarrassing.

“Oh, yes, loads of times,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, committing the bronze to memory. If Crowley wanted _that_ , well. Perhaps they’d also stop by that rather discreet shop that sold such useful things.

Crowley gave a happy little shimmy. “This is the best idea you’ve had in ages,” he said happily.

“If I’d known they would be showing Peter’s work, I’d have taken you to the BM,” Aziraphale said dryly. “You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

“I wonder if I can buy a maquette?” Crowley mused. “A little something for my desk.”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale said. “Those…those _angels_ you have are quite over the top as it is!”

“The wrestling ones?” Crowley asked sweetly.

“They. Are. Not. Wrestling,” Aziraphale said through clenched teeth. The argument was as old and worn as his favourite coat.

Crowley cackled, of course, and quickly took a few photos, quite in contravention of the posted signs.

It wasn’t every day one stumbled across a lifesize nude bronze of one’s beloved, as created by the hands of _his_ old lover.

Crowley didn’t really understand jealousy as such, other than as a handy sin always bubbling away, so he loudly and cheerfully enjoyed the work of someone who had also loved Aziraphale, and worked hard to capture the beauty of his body for all time.

“I’m not the only one who likes that particular Effort,” Crowley mumbled, after one more circle ‘round.

“Oh for –” And Aziraphale all but collared him and marched them both to the next room. They would _definitely_ be stopping by that discreet shop on the way home. Crowley had earned something _very pinchy_ , and that was just to begin with.


	9. Pottery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the previous story -- what happens after what happens when they go home.
> 
> (A bit NSFW. No actual sex, but the aftercare following a long and kinky sex marathon, some of which is broadly described. Crowley has some marks and bruises he enthusiastically wants to keep.)

The cold sound of glass on ceramic brought him back to himself. Crowley blinked, and focused – or tried to. Everything was still fuzzy, in a pleasant sort of way.

“Shhh, darling. Everything's all right, you're safe.” Aziraphale's voice was so gentle. Crowley relaxed right away, and felt himself lifted up, an arm under his shoulders, soft wings hovering in place to soften the bright afternoon light. Aziraphale held a cup to his mouth, and Crowley drank deep, the pottery cool on his lips.

“There we are,” Aziraphale murmured. “Water first, then I'll make you a nice cup of tea. But let's get you calm and cooled down, love.”

“M'fine,” Crowley, who couldn't actually focus his eyes or necessarily tell you how many limbs he had at the moment, said.

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and he felt a soft touch on his brow – a little kiss, more like than not. “I know you are, darling. Take another drink for me though, please?”

Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale. _Particularly_ after how Aziraphale had just made him feel, so of course he drank deep of cold water.

He heard the soft clink, the cup set down, and was pulled in Aziraphale's arms, snuggling happily with a sigh.

“There we are. My happy demon-boy.” Aziraphale didn't stroke his back or anything, that would be too much just now. But he held Crowley firm and strong, and gave him a rock to come back to. Always had. Just now they had sexy play too, on top of it.

When Crowley blinked his eyes open next, he could focus, and feel his fingers and toes. (And legs, for that matter – Aziraphale had _rather_ worked him over.)

“There we are,” Aziraphale said, so obviously delighted that Crowley found the energy to push himself up and kiss his beloved. For quite some time, and never mind that his arms gave out halfway through, Aziraphale was there to catch him.

“Check in with me,” Crowley said. He was _very_ serious about top-drop, while Aziraphale pretended that such things didn't affect him. Silly angel.

“I feel good,” Aziraphale promised. “I want to take care of you and hold you a lot, as much as you're comfortable with. You worked unbelievably hard, darling, and I'm so proud of you.”

“Those are not the 'I' statements I was looking for,” Crowley said, trying not to turn to jelly. He had made Aziraphale proud. He'd taken everything Aziraphale had thrown at him, and made him _proud_!

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I feel fine. I drank water. I rested too, while you did. You know holding you grounds me. I had about six very, _very_ nice orgasms. I feel...fulfilled,” he said thoughtfully. “Warm, and full up, and happy that I could give you what I did. I'm not tired or anything like that. I promise.”

“Better,” Crowley said, like the severe and strict sub he definitely was.

Aziraphale smiled indulgently, and scritched his head, his hair obviously an absolute mess, but that was for another time. “I love you very much, darling. Do you want me to heal your rope burns?”

Crowley shook his head. “They're not bad.” He freed one wrist and examined it – soft red marks, but no weals, no broken skin. “I like how they feel, and how they look.” They cris-crossed his thighs and his chest too, and would be a nice reminder until they healed.

“All right,” Aziraphale said, and kissed the top of his head. “Do you think you can sit up for me? I want to get some tea and food into both of us.”

Crowley made a whining noise and pushed deeper into Aziraphale's arms.

“I know, dear boy,” Aziraphale soothed. “I want to hold you forever too. But we'll both feel better with a bit of something inside of us.”

“I dunno, I had more than a _bit_...”

Aziraphale pinned him with a look.

“I was referring to when you had me lick you clean, very protein-heavy apparently,” Crowley said. The time for beatings was over. He was pretty sure.

“I ought to throw you out a window,” Aziraphale said. “Besides, that was of me, so it's not nearly the same as eating a bit of human food.”

“Really? Cos it tastes just like when – I'll shut up now,” Crowley said with a grin. It was so much fun to make Aziraphale perform his Grumpy Proper Old Queen routine.

“Why. Why do I love you,” Aziraphale sighed. He utterly belied his words by tenderly helping Crowley sit up, well-cushioned against a pile of pillows, and tucking his hair behind his ears, well out of the way. He kissed Crowley's cheek, and squeezed his hands, and got up to put the kettle on.

They were using the tea set Crowley had given him for their eighth anniversary, such as it had been. He smiled to see it – pretty, handmade pottery, nothing special really, but something incredibly special. They'd never married exactly, but every year they picked a day to be their anniversary. They'd had ten so far, and each one happier than the last.

Aziraphale came back with a full teapot and a little plate of biscuits, of which he made Crowley eat one.

He did, to be polite and because it did taste good, but he was _fine_. Maybe a little floaty, still, but nothing a spell of snuggling up to Aziraphale's side while they drank tea and talked of unimportant things wouldn't set right. His skin still burned softly where the ropes had held him, and what had been pinchy was now pleasantly swollen and warm. And of course he had a cup of strong, fragrant tea, and Aziraphale's arm around his shoulders, the cotton of his shirt wonderfully soft against Crowley's skin. He briefly worried about dried sweat and other things and being a bit gross, but of course Aziraphale had cleaned him up. So he, himself, was nice to touch and felt clean and warm and loved.

“More tea, love?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley gave a delicious little shiver.

“Yeah, please,” he said, and snuggled a little closer, comforted by the _tink_ of ceramic kissing for a moment, his cup refreshed, and a bonus kiss from his angel on his forehead, all the gentle little things they did to comfort and calm after play was over.


	10. Tin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet deep in a tin mine, and a proto-Arrangement is born.
> 
> Set in the past, pre-relationship. Some mention of Heaven's abusiveness towards Aziraphale.

Call them bucca or bwca, knocker or knacker. Or tommyknocker. Or kloker, or maybe brownie, although that's more of a cousin. Whatever their name, you find them when you go under the earth, deep, deeper than you thought you could. When you build struts and careful hollows, when you take coal or silver or copper, and where men die when the struts fail, or when a wall collapses, or any of the things that happen under the surface happen.

They may be what causes the accidents, or they might be warning you. It's not really clear. Maybe it's both? Either way, those who work the mines know to listen for the knocking sound in the walls, and take it as warning or awful premonition, or both.

The stories differ, too, on who is making the knocking sounds, whether it's the ghosts of those who went before, or fair folk who were never human. The stories do not quite, ever, get things right.

The only thing that was all right about being an angel serving a punishment at the bottom of a tin mine, Aziraphale thought sourly, was that he didn't have to pass for human, and thus could exist entirely in the spaces between atoms. It also meant that he was expected to keep up appearances, so could use as many miracles as he liked if he happened to get a bit of dirt on himself.

Everything _else_ about it, mind, was absolute pants. He was down in a pit, of all things! And it was awful, being told to knock down walls and things. Of course, it was part of Her Ineffable plan, but still. Aziraphale didn't like it. He tried to give as much warning as possible, at least.

And, well, it was lonely. It was supposed to be good for him, of course, that's what they all said Up There. It was a punishment meant to give him time to reflect on what being a good angel meant, and to remove all the temptations the humans had come up with, like fine fabrics and wine and good food. And warm fires of a damp night, although to be fair, the fire had been, in a way, Aziraphale's own gift. So when he indulged too obviously or for too long, it was time for a trip down the mines to the cold and the damp and the dark, to do Her work and think about what he was doing and if it was truly to Her glory.

He didn't think much, to be honest, which was probably why he was quite a bad angel. But he did get lonely, which was why it was so startling, and so lovely, the day he stumbled on Crowley (literally) in a deserted chamber.

“Oi! What're you doing here!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, utterly unable to hide the joy on his face. “My dear boy, fancy running into you here.”

“Angel?” Crowley blinked up at him, then accepted Aziraphale's offered hand pulling him up to stand. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“Oh, well. Got sent here,” Aziraphale said.

“To...tell the miners the Good Word?” Crowley hazarded.

“Oh, no. I'm on punishment detail – knocking the walls in and such,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Wait, that's _you_?” Crowley yelped.

“Well, what are _you_ doing down here?” Aziraphale asked, a little peevishly. “Pushing people into danger I suppose, some other demonic working.”

“What? No. Killing people's all your side,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale's jaw dropped in shock. But also. He wasn't wrong? “Warning them. Knockers, like. Someone's got to do it while the actual little buggers are taking their two weeks' holiday.”

“You. Warning. Ah. Why?”

Crowley shrugged. “Get 'em believing in supernatural entities and they're already on the slippery road to Hell? Dunno. Dull work, though.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “You have no idea. I don't even get to _choose_. It's just 'Angel Aziraphale, go to this mine at this time for this cave-in' and I _do_ try to give warning, I truly do, but one can only do so much.” He wrung his hands. “And Gabriel gets so upset if I delay the knocks. They're very important, you know. Get people in the frame of mind to think about what comes next.”

“...Yes,” Crowley said. “Look, this is silly. You know where cave-ins are going to be and stuff, right?”

“Well, not all of them. Some just happen on their own,” Aziraphale admitted. “But the ones that are scheduled, oh yes, hours in advance.”

“So we'll go there together, more or less,” Crowley said. “I can give warning, then don't have to worry about seismology. And you can be on time.”

“I'm sure it's quite against the rules to work with a _demon_ ,” Aziraphale said, but his hands were twisting in his clothing like they did right before he agreed to something. This...truly did solve their problems.

And it would give him a companion for a bit. Already the mine seemed less. Well. Frightening.

“Aw, c'mon. Who in Heaven is going to check up on you directly?” Crowley argued. “They won't fancy mussing their hair to come down here.”

“That's...true, actually,” Aziraphale conceded. “All right, demon. We'll work together. Just while we're both here,” he added. Working with Crowley was acceptable. Working with some unknown little demon who might not even have an opinion on this new invention _whiskey_ was quite, quite out of the question.

“Deal,” Crowley said happily. “Right, where're we off to next, angel?”


	11. Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale both learn they have a corset kink.
> 
> (Lightly NSFW. No sex, but definitely the precursors, and all the sensuality of beginning to explore a new kink. Aziraphale is female-presenting, uses she/her pronouns, and is very high femme about it all too. Crowley is genderqueer and presents however they feel like presenting at that moment, and uses zie/zir pronouns.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. For TWENTY YEARS my response to ‘I don’t know what to write’ has been h/c. It is now, apparently, ‘give them a corset kink’.
> 
> 2\. Oh hell yeah this is going to be a longer story someday you guys. It’s been a million years since I read up on corsets so I need to do some research, but this is absolutely going to be a thing.
> 
> 2\. Incidentally, this is my first time writing someone using zie/zir pronouns – if I make an error, please do call it out.

“What d'you think, angel?”

Crowley had asked her that so many times over the centuries, Aziraphale mused. Playful, challenging, funny, all kinds of emotions. Showing off a new outfit, or the Bentley, or some flash bit of technology. Asking her her opinion on the Reformation, on Spinoza, on a new way to prepare pasta. (This last was a bit of a gimme – Aziraphale had yet to meet a pasta dish, from the finest, most elaborate creation down to boxed mac 'n' cheese, that she didn't love.)

Zie had usually been cheerful about it, genuinely curious to know what Aziraphale thought, and oh, that had always been so tender. Often zie had been challenging; little innocent questions to help ease Aziraphale along to realising the truth of Heaven, and her own actions, and oh yes, that maybe she loved this demon more than she'd loved anything or anyone in all her life.

This, maybe, was a new one, though. Crowley sounded – shy? Maybe not shy. Maybe a little uncertain. Maybe...hopeful, Aziraphale decided, all this flowing through her mind in a moment, as Crowley stood in the entrance to the bookshop.

Zie was beautiful, as always. But a little sleeker than usual, and with a silhouette Aziraphale hadn't seen in absolute _ages_ and oh!

“A corset!” Aziraphale broke out into a grin and crossed the floor to take Crowley into a light embrace, and kiss zir. “I think you look wonderful.” For zie did; the corset ran from over zir breasts to zir hips, heavy dupioni silk, unadorned and sleek. It pushed zir bust out, and nipped zir waist in in beautiful curves, then flared out, just a little, over zir hips, giving zir a figure of beautiful flowing lines.

Crowley smiled and touched zir belly. “I didn't know they still made them. But, yeah. Found a corsetiere. Got this made up, y'know, just to see if I could still pull it off.”

“Oh gosh, Steel boning and everything?” Aziraphale guessed, running her fingers over the channels. “You're really properly held in there.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Crowley sighed, and _oh_ it was like _that_.

“You look so beautiful,” Aziraphale praised, and kissed Crowley very gently. “Will you please let me lace you up next time?”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale was pretty sure zie couldn't get their eyes to show a separate iris if zir life depended on it. “I came right from the shop to here.”

Aziraphale's smile grew. “What gifts you give me, Crowley.”

“It feels like I'm being held,” Crowley said. “It's not even a tight lace, honest, I just.” Zie ducked zir head. “It feels like when you hug me tight.”

“Good,” Aziraphale praised. Always praise, _always_ , to start things off. And sometimes be the whole of the thing.

Crowley grinned at her, and Aziraphale pulled zir into another hug, ruffling zir short hair. “Truly, Crowley, you look stunning,” she said, no more than Crowley's beloved for the moment. “Will you take me to your corsetiere sometime, please? I want to buy you something from her.”

Crowley grinned. “And get something for yourself?”

Aziraphale touched her own lush figure, and thought about all that flesh, held under steel and silk, the way she would be held and supported. Goodness, corsets had made a proper posture an absolute joy. And then, at the end of the day, or whenever she liked, Crowley could unhook the clasps at the busk, and Aziraphale would be wholly soft again, breasts spilling out to a waiting demon's hands and mouth...

She swallowed hard. “I think I would like that very much.”


	12. Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Aziraphale has to conveniently die, Crowley breaks him out of the grave.
> 
> (Female-presenting Crowley. Can be read platonic or romantic.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of them having to regularly excavate the other. (After arranging the funeral, of course. Wonderful chance to show off a new frock, a funeral.)

Aziraphale lay very still, just in case. It wasn't so much that he was worried about graverobbers, but he'd definitely startled some in the past. Breaking into a mausoleum or digging out a fresh grave only to be met with the corpse sitting up and going 'Good _somebody_ Crowley, must you always take an age? You forgot about me again, didn't you!' generally lead to a lot of screaming and flailing and ugh. Aziraphale simply couldn't be _bothered_.

So when he heard the soft sound of a pick chipping away at a newly-sealed door, he lay quite still. It wasn't comfortable, precisely, but he had some idea that a hard surface was good for one's back, so perhaps it was all right.

The picking took rather a long time. Ugh, if Crowley had got drunk and lost track of time _again_...

“Right, s'me angel.” _Finally_. Aziraphale sat up in relief.

“Oh, thank goodness, I was going simply _mad_ with boredom,” he said, hopping out of the stone sarcophagus, after shifting the cover aside. “Hullo, dear.” A perfunctory kiss, to say thank you. It _was_ kind of Crowley to rescue him, but then it was also a bit Crowley's fault he'd had to 'die' in such a hurry.

“Next time you're getting a shallow grave on the edge of town,” Crowley grumped, examining her fingernails. “Easier on me.”

“Tell me about it,” Aziraphale said. “I can bloody well rescue myself out of one of those.” He sighed loudly. “Or, you know, I could not need to conveniently die in the first place.”

“That wasn't my fault!” Crowley protested.

A pause. It was, literally, silent as the grave.

“All right, it was a little my fault,” Crowley said. “Did you like your funeral? I hope you appreciate the silk shroud. Could've gone with linen, but got to show my husband off in death and all that.”

“It's very nice,” Aziraphale admitted, and snapped his fingers, transforming it into rather a nice silk suit, which did cover a bit more skin, blessedly. “And I did like it. I thought your needing to be carried into the church because you were so prostrate with grief was a clever touch, by the way, we'll have to remember that.”

Crowley bowed her head in acknowledgement of her clever plans. “Right, then. That's you sorted, and don't worry, all your worldly goods are going to the orphanage. Your widow's taken a vow of extreme poverty to go live out her days in grief.”

“Bless,” Aziraphale said boredly, manifesting a small mirror so he could check his hair and the lay of his collar. “Orphanage, though? That's awfully close to doing good, my sweet.”

“It's _your_ stuff,” Crowley pointed out, wrapping her cloak more firmly around her, now that it looked like Aziraphale was _finally_ ready to get a move on. “They're all going to grow up to be _capitalists_ , just to be able to dress in silks all day, every day.”

Aziraphale gave her a withering look, and considered pointing out that Crowley was wearing just as much silk, but, well. They did still have to get back to England together, and having a spat with the being who just broke one out of the grave was ever so boorish. So, instead, he held out his arm and once Crowley had tucked hand into his elbow, snapped his fingers and sent them home.


	13. Lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe as my story A Little Place in the Country. Aziraphale tries on a wedding dress and has mixed feelings about until Crowley catches her. Then she has definitely very good feelings about it all.
> 
> (Female-presenting Crowley and Aziraphale, established romantic relationship, asexual relationship, disabled!Crowley.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the same universe as A Little Place in the Country. There’s…not really any way to spoil that story, but I few things worth knowing:
> 
> \- They live most of the time in a strange old house in the countryside that they’re slowly fixing up.
> 
> \- Aziraphale presents female and uses she/her pronouns. Crowley changes their presentation and pronouns throughout the story, but here uses she/her pronouns.
> 
> \- At times, Crowley’s hips and legs aren’t very good at working as they ought to, so she uses mobility aides when needed, as she does in this story.

Look, it wasn't as though she wanted to _get_ married. That would imply that they weren't married, which they very much were. Crowley and Aziraphale were about as married as two people could get, only without the actual wedding. Which was silly, because that was a human ritual, and it had two purposes: to have one's union blessed by one's deity of choice, and to be recognized by families and community. So there was no point, really; neither of them wanted anything to do with God, their community treated them as married, and they were each others' sole family, and they treated each other as married.

(Well, all right, there were the children, Aziraphale's charges. But _they_ all treated them as married too, so, same result.)

They had rings that Crowley had found for them, and that was good enough. Only...

Aziraphale had seen the dress in a shop window some years before, and it had stuck with her. It had been white, but not the cold white of Heaven – it had perhaps some gold tones, or something else that softened it a little. And the _lace_! Lace sleeves and décolletage, and lace over the bodice and overlaying the skirts, beautiful and fine, giving the sense of cascading flowers which, of course, would be echoed by one's bouquet.

So Aziraphale didn't want a wedding, because that would be silly. But on a day that was a little slow, and she felt a little sad for no good reason – well, she could play dress-up, and see how she looked in the confection of a dress.

It was fitted perfectly, of course – she wouldn't imagine _bad tailoring_ – but, well. It was...fine. The lace lay over her skin, and it was a nice effect. The dress followed her curves, her pretty hourglass body, with some help from some highly-engineered undergarments. It was pretty. She was pretty.

Aziraphale sighed, and looked at herself, and smoothed the skirt. It was _stupid_ . She wasn't going to get married, she and Crowley _were_ married. This dress was a stupid indulgence. She shouldn't have wasted the energy for no one to see and not even to enjoy seeing herself in it.

Aziraphale looked down at her hands smoothing the skirt, and tried to be happy. She really did, and maybe trying so hard at that was why she didn't hear Crowley until the soft gasp from the doorway.

“Oh! Home already, darling?” She looked up, twisting around to see Crowley in the door, jaw hanging open a little. Crowley had gone out for a little drive, just a fun jaunt around the countryside sowing discord and terror, just to keep her hand in, she claimed. Aziraphale had waved her out the door, more than pleased to not be going along.

“You.” Crowley swallowed and licked her lips. “ _You_. I. Ngk.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes. “Yes, lace flatters me. Always has. I look nice enough, I guess.”

“Angel. Baby. Love. _Darling_.” Crowley took a deep breath. “You are so beautiful right now. I can't even...nghh.” She shook her head and started across the room to the bed. “Come here so I can look at you and kiss you properly?” she requested, once she'd settled on the side of the bed, crutches leaning beside her.

“If you like,” Aziraphale said, trying to be cool and casual. “I just got bored. Decided to play around.” She walked across the room to stand in front of Crowley, hands gripping each other tightly.

“Do that more often,” Crowley breathed. She reached out, hands on Aziraphale's hips, and drew her in close, kissing her belly, burying her face in the lace at the front of the bodice. “I can't even. You are so _beautiful_.”

“Oh, don't encourage me,” Aziraphale said, a little desperately.

“I bloody well will!” Crowley looked up at her, hands moving up to hold her waist, thumbs brushing just an inch or two below the curve of her bust. “What's wrong? You love playing dress-up.”

“It's a wedding dress,” Aziraphale said dully.

“Yes? I need more words, angel-girl,” Crowley said gently.

Aziraphale sighed. “It just feels...stupid. I don't even want a wedding. We're married and we have been for years, and I love you more every day, and I feel closer to you every moment. I just...I don't know. It seems silly to play dress-up, like I'm a child, about a thing I already have.”

“So? You've been silly before and survived.” Crowley pulled her into another hug. “Ugh, help me up? I want to hold you properly.”

Aziraphale smiled and offered Crowley her arms, a strong, steady anchor so Crowley could pull herself up, and then lean on Aziraphale, hugging and being held all in one.

“You're allowed to be beautiful and have fun just because,” Crowley said softly. “You are _so_ beautiful, you're a gift to the world like this. My own loving angel. No one will ever laugh at you for playing dress-up. Hell, I'm just upset you have a head start.” She grinned and snapped her fingers, and even Aziraphale had to laugh, for Crowley was in a lace gown too, now. Only hers was black, long and flowing and columnar, even a little train, and did _not_ have an underlayer. Nor undergarments, apparently.

Aziraphale giggled, suddenly holding her as-good-as-naked demon. Then – “Oh! Oh, darling.” Crowley had turned her crutches a beautiful pearly white, to match _Aziraphale's_ dress. She'd never done that before.

Crowley grinned at her and kissed her. “You've got the right idea, lady-love, this lace feels wonderful.” She gave a little wiggle and Aziraphale loosed her arms, used to Crowley's little signals, giving her support but also space to grab her crutches and settle on them, and kiss Aziraphale's cheek.

“Let's go drink champagne and eat cake in the garden?” Crowley suggested. “Show ourselves off – I want to see how you move in that dress, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled at her, fierce and in love. “And I want to see you in the sunlight, demon. It's too shady in here, that lace is actually covering things up a bit.”

Crowley gave a happy wriggle and Aziraphale laid a gentle hand on the small of her back, their version of holding hands, as they went out in the garden together.

(Obviously not a speck of dirt dared land on Aziraphale's dress. Even after they drank too much champagne and woke up the next morning with Aziraphale wearing only her knickers and stockings, asleep in the thick grass by the lavender plants. She blinked and sat up and looked around, and Crowley was just an arm's reach away, curled up under the dress like it was the softest and warmest of duvets.

Aziraphale kept the dress, and made sure Crowley kept hers, too. For the next time they wanted to dress up and be beautiful together and laugh and all the good things they did.)


	14. Ivory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to Chapter 4 - Fruit. After a little spill, Aziraphale is temporarily laid up. He and Crowley pass the time by discovering family stories, gratis all the family junk in storage.
> 
> (Established relationship, Human AU, autistic!Aziraphale, some very light hurt/comfort, mention of abusive family.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to [4 - Fruit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951017/chapters/57743134).
> 
> Also, I love autistic!Aziraphale more than I can say.

Married life was wonderful. Aziraphale had always thought it would be so –  _ why _ , he had no idea, it wasn't like his parent's marriage was a template for joy and contentment – but he had known, deep down, and he was so pleased to learn he was right. Anthony Crowley was the most wonderful husband, perfectly kind and caring. He loaded the dishwasher properly, and every day, before he set off to work, he kissed Aziraphale and hugged him, and told him he loved him.

(They had moved into Aziraphale's flat over the bookshop as they liked it better and Aziraphale had rather gotten used to a thirty-second commute.)

Perhaps not a very big thing. Perhaps something that was quotidian, but it made Aziraphale's heart leap, every time. He was loved.

(Of course he kissed Anthony back, and hugged him, and told him he was loved. Many times a day. And every time they had a moment of being quiet together, of breathing it in. They weren't alone anymore, and they'd always have each other. Aziraphale knew they might outgrow the moment of quiet, as they grew used to married life, but he thought it might not be for some time.)

There were the little irritants of life too, obviously. Anthony simply did not seem to understand what hampers were for, and they'd had several long, careful talks about what realistic standards for neatness and noise were, when it came to what Aziraphale was accustomed to and what was fair for Anthony.

(“I'm sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale had said at one point, as they were going over some finer point of where plants would and should go. “This isn't even my autism, it's just who I am as a person.”

Anthony had almost fallen off of the sofa he laughed so hard, and had gathered Aziraphale in a hug and covered his face in kisses. And had also given him a set of very nice noise-cancelling headphones that were light enough and soft enough he could wear them happily for hours at a time.)

Aziraphale was still deciding if his current situation was an irritant or no. He'd slipped on a patch of ice and sprained an ankle. Not seriously, but enough that it was best he close the shop and spend a few days with said ankle bandaged and elevated and keep off his feet as much as possible. 

To be entirely honest, this was not what he might call a hardship, especially once he was done with the A&E and entirely too many jokes about Mr. Crowley-Fell falling. Anthony had been worried and tender, but visibly held himself back from fussing over Aziraphale too much, and Aziraphale loved him for it to such an extent that he permitted a limited amount of pampering. For his husband's sake, of course, and for Anthony's tender heart.

He had been perfectly happy to settle in on a sofa with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches and read the days away in solitude. Possibly he had actually looked forward to it. And he wasn't  _ upset _ that Anthony had taken off work. To put it bluntly, they didn't need the money. And it was nice to truly be able to keep off his feet, have meals and little snacks and cups of tea brought to him; even a minor sprain could be painful, he had learned.

But it also meant that he had a, frankly, somewhat  _ bored _ Anthony hanging about and getting into things. And the headphones were irritating and didn't seem to want to sit right, and he could only half-concentrate on his book, good as it was, with his husband pinging around like noisy billiard ball. And his ankle ached. And he was  _ not bored _ , Aziraphale Fell didn't get bored. 

Besides, they had the Game to distract them.

Properly, its name was 'The Aziraphale Fell's Ancestors Were All Colonialist Hoarders So I Guess He's Doing Well Considering Game', but only Anthony called it that. While Aziraphale did not actually disagree with the title, he usually simply called it The Game.

The Game was built around a room that had more or less served as offsite storage for Aziraphale's parents' place, holding small and dusty things the family had accumulated over the centuries. They had never asked for any of it back when Aziraphale cut ties with them, so he'd shrugged and kept it, with a vague idea of turning it into some kind of Wunderkammer someday.

It was already there, for Anthony. He could spend all day digging through piles of things and going through boxes, asking Aziraphale for what stories he knew or remembered. And he actually did know something about nearly everything in there; his parents had been pretty big on Keeping The Family History Alive, and his grandmother had often done for him what he now did for Crowley – simply looked a thing over, accessed her vast memory, and told him the stories she knew. 

Aziraphale did not particularly have happy memories of his family. He was still learning how to live in a loving, non-abusive family, for goodness' sake. But he did remember his grandmother's stories, and smile, and was happy to play The Game. He and Anthony were a family now, so these were  _ his _ stories too, now.

So, instead of making a dent in his to-read pile, and instead of Anthony going to work like he absolutely  _ could _ , Aziraphale was not an  _ invalid _ , they played The Game.

Anthony had been gone for quite some time, and Aziraphale was curious to see what he came up with. He had an unerring nose for good stories, and a few of his discoveries had become things they used every day. And he never brought photographs alone, in case Aziraphale was having a day when he didn't want to talk about his family so directly – although sometimes it was all right, and so there was a very cute framed photo of newborn Aziraphale that hung above Anthony's desk now.

“Brought tea too,” Anthony announced, coming into their living room with two mugs in one hand and a fine wooden box in the other. He came over to the sofa where Aziraphale had been stationed, where there was good light and pretty plants and a view of the street out front if he wished to people-watch. 

(Aziraphale had never wanted to people-watch in his entire life, and really did not understand Anthony's penchant for making up tales about whoever wandered by, but, well, the light  _ was _ good here.)

“Oh, thank you my dear.” Aziraphale breathed the fragrant steam in with a smile, some part of him settling and soothed. Anthony always made his tea exactly as he liked it, Yorkshire Gold brewed for precisely four minutes, with a dash of milk. “I love you,” he said suddenly.

“I love you too,” Anthony said, a little bemused but willing to roll with it. He settled on a low ottoman by the sofa, and kissed Aziraphale's temple, over the arm of his reading glasses. “You look cute, by the way.”

“Flatterer,” Aziraphale said, and set his mug aside after he'd had a good, refreshing drink. “What treasure did you find?”

“I think it literally _is_ treasure,” Anthony admitted, and handed the box over. “I'm almost afraid to touch it.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and opened the lid of the box. “Oh! Oh, my dear, you've found a good one.” Carefully, he reached in and lifted out the smaller box within it. “You're quite right. It's priceless. In the most literal sense.”

“It's ivory, isn't it?” Anthony asked softly.

“Indeed it is. I'm permitted to own it, but can't sell it. Not sure I could even give it away,” he mused. “And quite rightly, too.”

“It's beautiful,” Anthony said, and reached out a fingertip to touch a carving. The box was small, no more than ten by ten centimetres, and only a little higher than Aziraphale's thumb was wide. It was made up of panels of ivory, carved into flowers and clever little beasts. Anthony was touching a beautiful hare that was leaping into flames.

“It's absolutely exquisite. Thank you for finding it again,” Aziraphale said. “It's got – well, this box is why I have my name.”

“Tell me _everything_!” Anthony said, delighted. “What ancestral curse does it bear?”

“Oh, shut up,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. He carefully lifted off the lid and peered in, but it was empty, not even dust inside. “It was given to an ancestor of mine by an angel.”

Anthony blinked. “You're joking.”

“Well, that's the story, anyway.” Aziraphale turned the box around in his hands, regarding it closely, a small smile playing at his lips. “Somebody back in twelve hundred and froze to death was travelling, and they stopped for a night in an inn. There was only one fellow-traveller, a middle-aged man. They got to drinking, as one would, and the fellow confessed he was an angel. Wings and everything. My ancestor was pretty gobsmacked, the story goes, but I suspect he was mostly drunk. Still, he woke up the next morning in bed, with this as a kind of parting-gift. It held enough money so he could safely make it to wherever he was going. And he named his first son Aziraphale, after the angel.”

“This is wonderful,” Anthony said. “You really are an angel, angel.”

“Oh _stop_ ,” Aziraphale said, but he gave a little wiggle just the same, so Anthony knew he was happy. “It really ought to be Aziraphael, probably, but here we are.”

“Aziraphael,” Anthony said, drawing the syllables out. “Nah. Like your name better. 'Sides it's a stupid pun with your surname.”

“It's your surname too, Mr Crowley-Fell,” Aziraphale pointed out and oh. Oh, his sweet boy, the way he melted.

Anthony touched his forehead to Aziraphale's arm, and Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “Do you want to keep it out? It really is very lovely.”

Anthony held out his hand to take the box, and examined it closely, turning and touching the carvings. “I don't know,” he said finally. “It's about as of your family as anything could be. Are you all right having that reminder of them floating around?”

“Well, I wasn't thinking we'd use it as the saltcellar,” Aziraphale said, touched and bemused. “And of course. If my parents want it back, they know where to find me. And that ancestor who ultimately landed me with this name – _he_ hasn't done me any wrong.” He touched a little carved apple. “I don't think the angel would hate me either, for bearing his name. I hope not.”

“I think he would love you,” Anthony said softly. “And be proud of what a good man you are.”

“Do _you_ want it around?” Aziraphale asked.

Anthony was thoughtful for a bit. “Let's give it a go? It's beautiful, and I'm glad you love it, but it sort of  _ does _ mean your family to me, and I won't forgive them, ever. But I want to love this pretty little thing the way you do.”

“We'll give it a go,” Aziraphale agreed, and handed it into Anthony's careful hands. “Put it on the mantelpiece for me, please?”

“Of course.” Anthony bounced up and placed it, spacing everything around it carefully so the mantel was just the right kind of cluttered, and Aziraphale's heart squeezed at how his Anthony understood him. He came back and Aziraphale, to show his gratitude, permitted a bit of fussing and adjusting the pillow under his ankle, and positively encouraged the hug and kiss.

“Another round of The Game?” he proposed, and Anthony snuggled more deeply into his arms.

“In a moment,” he said. “Need my angel time. Specially now that I know you're _really_ an angel.”

Aziraphale sighed noisily. “He  _ met _ my ancestor, didn't  _ impregnate _ him, you know.”

“Bet you he did,” Anthony announced, from where he'd smushed his face into Aziraphale's shoulder, pretty clearly content to not move for quite some time still. “And I'm the religious one, I should know.”

Aziraphale simply sighed, but didn't argue any further.


	15. Crystal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have a night in together. And have sex. That's it, that's the story.
> 
> (NSFW, transmasc Crowley, light dirty talk, penetrative sex)

The crystal decanter was an old friend now. Aziraphale had picked it up in Vienna sometime in the seventeenth century, and it had stayed with him ever since as he roamed the world, then settled in London. It had spent a few years getting dusty, of course, as he went here and there on assignments, but was always guaranteed to be clean and full whenever Crowley was around.

And now, Crowley was around all the time. So it generally held about a bottle's worth of very good port, and was dusted so it caught the light in beautiful refractions. It was perhaps not the finest piece in his collection, but Aziraphale thought he liked it the best.

And tonight it served to pour them each a small glass of port, just a little nip to help with digestion or what-have-you. Crowley accepted his with a kiss of thanks, and they settled happily together on the old sofa next to Aziraphale's desk.

Not very much had changed, yet everything had changed. The ruby of the port in the golden lamplight, that was the same. The rich flavour, and Crowley's appreciative little hum, the same. They were in the bookshop, and everything smelled the way it always had, and he was here with his best friend, the way he always had been.

The fact Aziraphale was sat on the sofa was new, mind. And so was the fact that he had one arm around Crowley, and Crowley's legs flung over his lap. And the way Crowley set his empty glass aside and reached for Aziraphale with equal, if not more, zeal, and Aziraphale tasted the port in his mouth – that was also new.

Well, new-ish. But what was a year, compared to all those years without kisses? Or the other things they did, of course.

Aziraphale finished his port and set the glass aside, Crowley already pretty well in his lap and oh, this was one of the best new things. The way they devoured each other without it being dangerous or frightening. The way that first kiss had been so gentle, and no matter what else they did, they always started gentle now, checking with one another. Sometimes there were days when Aziraphale couldn't be touched with anything but softness, and there were other days when Crowley couldn't be held, because it raised too many memories for them. They were so  _ careful _ with each other, and that hadn't changed either, and thank goodness for it.

Kisses flowed together the way their bodies began to come together in familiar ways, Crowley's skinny hips under Aziraphale's hands, his thumbs on Crowley's waist. 

And Crowley's hand down the front of his trousers, making him jump a little, then laugh.

“Oooh. _Oooh_. You size queen,” Crowley accused.

“I just manifest what I know you like,” Aziraphale said, preening and smiling. “What do you want, darling?”

“T-to ride you,” Crowley gasped, as Aziraphale kissed his throat. “You?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “But I want you to be naked. I want it to feel like I was so overwhelmed with wanting to fuck you, I couldn't even bother to get undressed.”

Crowley made a raw noise, and Aziraphale snapped his fingers to get a naked demon in his lap, beautiful and spare and covered in sweet freckles from head to toe. Aziraphale loved him so much. He reached for another kiss and curved his fingers between Crowley's legs, slipping between the folds of his vulva, feeling him already wet. Aziraphale dipped a fingertip in – they both kept their nails quite short these days, vulvas were  _ ever _ so nice – and when Crowley whimpered drew it out, trailing up and over his clit.

“Oh, beautiful,” Aziraphale praised. “Just a delight.” He undid his trousers, one hand still on Crowley's waist to hold him steady, and soon it was his turn to only be able to make noises as Crowley got up onto his knees and sank down onto his cock, slow as he could, warm and wet and tight.

He groaned and shook, and Aziraphale held him tight. “Too much?” he whispered. “I can go smaller.”

Crowley shook his head hard. “No, no, not too much, perfect, y'r perfect angel...”

“Shh, darling. It's all right,” Aziraphale comforted, and smiled. “Size queen.”

“Uh huh. Whatever.” Crowely threw his head back and started to rock a little, thighs un-tensing, moaning a little as he relaxed, and just _felt_.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, and kissed Crowley's chest, right over his heart, and then they didn't talk very much at all, focused far more on each bringing the other to pleasure, on their bodies rubbing together, on kisses and soft bites and moans. The way Crowley cried out high and sweet when he came, or how Aziraphale still cried half the time, overwhelmed with how good his body felt when it was being thoroughly and actively loved.

They wore each other out over hours, so that it was so late it was early when Aziraphale laid back, Crowley cuddled in his arms, miraculously clean of course. (They both liked the – well, the  _ byproducts _ of sex in the moment, and Aziraphale in particular liked how sticky and messy he could get to show how much Crowley loved his body, but once the orgasm wore off properly, away it all went.) He had lost his clothes some time ago, Crowley enjoying the original scenario but soon demanding to see his body, the better to worship it. And, well, Aziraphale couldn't refuse Crowley much these days.

And now Aziraphale had pyjamas, and had miracled up a dressing gown for his darling, not trusting a soft blanket, the heating system in the shop, and Aziraphale's own body heat to keep him warm. It must have worked, though, for Crowley's skin was warm to the touch, even his fingertips. And he was deeply asleep, head pillowed on Aziraphale's chest.

Not that Aziraphale was up for much either, mind. He would perhaps nap as well; he'd picked up the habit over the year they'd been together. But for the moment, all he wanted was to lie there and watch the lamplight glint off of the facets of the crystal decanter, and be so, so happy.


	16. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has changed a lot since the Apocanot; she realises another thing she wants to change over a cup of tea with Crowley.
> 
> (female-presenting Aziraphale and Crowley, disabled!Crowley, part of the universe of A Little Place in the Country)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a sudden deep yearning to have someone bring me a cup of tea.

“Oh, you are a dear,” Aziraphale said, glancing up from her book for a moment as Crowley set down her mug of tea. She blinked, and did a double-take. “Crowley! You're walking!”

Crowley laughed and flopped into the loveseat that had quite purposely been put in the library just for her. “Aziraphale, love of my life. I haven't needed crutches for two days.”

Aziraphale blinked at her. “I haven't been in here for  _ two days _ ?”

“Try three,” Crowley advised. “You've been a bit busy, working through that crate.”

“You're joking,” Aziraphale said, and her jaw actually dropped when Crowley showed her the date and time on her phone. “I've been in here for that long?”

“You have indeed, love,” Crowley said, grinning. “To get back to your original question, my hips feel okay. Not perfect, but I can walk fine. Even went for a ramble yesterday, up onto the hills.”

Aziraphale blinked, and wasn't sure how she felt. Of course she'd disappeared into books for days at a time before, but not since they'd moved out here to the country. And it felt...mean, she decided. Selfish.

She took a sip of tea, and it tasted so good, and was so warm and comforting, and she realized that the rain was coming hard agains the window, and Crowley loved her enough to bring her a cup of tea even when she wasn't a very good wife or girlfriend or whatever she was.

“Angel?” Crowley asked softly. “What's going through your head? Do you want to be left alone?”

Aziraphale shook her head hard. “No! Never. Never from you.” She blinked, and smiled. “I'm sorry. I. A lot is going on.” She took another deep drink, milky and strong and smiled. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Can I get some more words, though?” Crowley asked delicately.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Yes. Sorry. Right. Do you...mind, that I rather vanished for a few days?”

Crowley shrugged. “No? You've done it before. I know you're all right and all, happy as a clam even.” A pause, and Aziraphale knew she'd have to keep this on track before Crowley started wondering if clams were actually happy, and they neglected something important to talk about shellfish. It wouldn't be the first time.

Aziraphale nodded quickly. “All right. Good. I don't want to do that again, though.”

“Fair enough,” Crowley said. “It's fine, though, angel. I know how you get.”

“Fine to you, but not to me,” Aziraphale said. “It's...different. Living here with you. I know we were already in each others' pockets, but we've gotten closer, right?”

“We have,” Crowley agreed. “Living together, being each others' beloved. I already loved you more than anyone else in the world, but it's different, now.”

“Exactly.” Another sip of tea. “I don't want to disappear for days. I mean, we both go haring off to wherever and that's always fine, but I don't want to...get lost.” She smiled. “I don't want to be in a house with you for three days, and not kiss you once. Or notice that your hips are doing better. Or not share a cup of tea with you.”

Crowley grinned. “Look, I'm not going to complain about more kisses or tea or talking to you.” She cocked her head to one side. “You know this isn't forever though, right? Uh, I mean, me not needing crutches. Not this-this.  _ This-this _ is definitely forever.”

Aziraphale hid a smile in her cup. “I know what you meant. And I know, darling. But I also know that no matter how much we've made this place easy for you to get around in, and you can miracle up any help you might need, it  _ is _ easier on you to have your back and hips and legs working properly.”

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, fair enough. Still.”

Aziraphale gave her a Look. “Do we need to discuss how my feelings about you don't change in the least whether you're on crutches or not?” Honestly, the things Crowley picked up from humans sometimes. It could make a girl scream. Then run around assembling a perfect night in with all of Crowley's favourite things.

Crowley squirmed. “Absolutely not.”

Aziraphale smiled a little too sweetly. Usually the threat of Talking About How Much Aziraphale Loves Me was enough to get Crowley into line. “Drink your tea, dear, before it gets cold. I'll make the next pot.” It was really awfully nice to be here in her library where everything was warm and cozy, and listen to the rain and talk to her sweetheart. And, of course, to share a cup of tea.

Yes. She would absolutely not give up another day of this. Not even for new books.


	17. Furniture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has loved furniture for a long time, but this is the first time he's had an opinion on beds -- first Crowley's, and then the one they'll share.
> 
> (Established relationship, asexual relationship)

They had been there for the invention of furniture, of course. Aziraphale had, personally, actually invented the end table himself. Well _something_ had to hold his glass of wine and small plate of snacks while he read. Aziraphale found he'd rather enjoyed seeing what the humans came up with, all the different patterns and textiles and woodwork and _everything_. Of course, he was partial to bookshelves as soon as they were invented, but found he also quite liked chairs. They helped him maintain his posture, a thing that was very important to both him and, he was sure, Heaven. Wouldn't do to be a sloppy angel!

As a being who liked the finer things in life, he certainly found himself drawn to the art and beauty in a well-made piece of furniture. Moving about throughout history, he took advantage and sampled everything that appealed to him, gradually accumulating a dragon's hoard in various warehouses and sheds and the like. Most of these he forgot about over the years, and it was more than one young couple who had a good start to their shared household when they stumbled across one of Aziraphale's forgotten caches. And the bits he loved the most, of course, he held onto carefully, and moved them from place to place with him.

Funny, though – he had never owned a bed. Never saw any need to, really; he hardly participated in any of the things traditionally done on (or in) beds. He certainly never slept, or if he did it was more of a quick nap on a sofa or chair. If he wanted to read it was just as comfortable to sit in his chair. And goodness knew he wasn't doing anything _else_ that one might do in a bed. Not even after he'd met Crowley, and not after they'd begun the sort of relationship that usually needed a bed.

Crowley had owned beds through the ages, of course. He quite liked sleep, and was of course very accomplished at it by now. He was, Aziraphale was learning, less accomplished at picking out beds. Well, the kinds of beds Aziraphale would have approved of upon first sight, anyway.

“You say it's comfortable?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

“ _Aziraphale_ , it's not going to bite you,” Crowley said. He sat on one side and patted across to the other side of the bed, intended for the angel. The charcoal blanket stretched, tight and perfect, the crisp grey top sheet visible. The pillows...were there. This was not really what Aziraphale had envisioned, if he was being honest.

For they were to share a bed now. That was a thing they did. Not for sex or anything like that, neither had much interest in squelchy things, but for holding one another. Talking. Being close. Aziraphale thought it all sounded rather intimate, cuddled up under a big soft duvet with one's best friend, perhaps listening to the rain fall against the window in between kisses.

It was a dry night, and of course as he hadn't a bed – or a bedroom, really – they were at Crowley's place, and in Crowley's bed. Or about to be, anyway.

Aziraphale tugged the covers loose and slipped under the blanket and sheet. Well, all right. It wasn't that bad. The light in here was low, of course, swallowed up by the dark walls of Crowley's bedroom, but he thought the little sculpture of a cobra looked extra-friendly in the low light. And if Crowley wanted to sleep, it would be dark enough for him to do so.

The mattress was rather firm, but nice for that; Aziraphale felt supported in a way that sagging wool and antique horsehair did not, admittedly, always accomplish. And the single blanket was surprisingly warm, with some real weight to it – he was quite toasty, really. The pillows were like the mattress; supportive, soft but not squishy.

Aziraphale was a big enough angel to know when he'd judged by appearances and been wrong, but also was clever enough to hold out for more. Which was why when Crowley, his eyes impossibly soft, reached across to lay his hand on Aziraphale's and and ask if he was comfy, he did not give an immediate affirmative.

Instead he wiggled thoughtfully, tugged a bit more blanket free, and finally made a happy snuggling sort of wriggle. “This will quite do, thank you. It's my first bed, so I don't have anything really to compare...”

Crowley smiled and slipped a bit closer, one arm curling around Aziraphale and encouraging him closer still, their bodies beginning to touch as they relaxed into one another.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, yes. Yes, that's wonderful,” he said, not bothering to restrain his words. For it was; being held by Crowley was one of the nicest things in the world. Any old bed would do, if he had his demon in it.

“Good. Wouldn't want your first time in a bed to be rubbish,” he said, and Aziraphale snuggled a little closer.

“Couldn't possibly be, with you here too,” he said, and then there was plenty of kissing and talking softly of the secrets of their hearts, and all kinds of wonderful things.

As surprisingly pleasant as Crowley's bed was, Aziraphale held out for them choosing a bed together when they moved to their spot in the countryside, a proposal that lead to some frantic research through old books on the history of fine furniture-making for one of them, and an idle leaf through the Ikea catalog for the other. And thus began a kind of battle of angelic and demonic workings, though absolutely not in the way God had probably intended. For starters, they were sat together on a loveseat and were holding hands. Crowley occasionally rested his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. And they had started by kissing for a good quarter of an hour, so happy that they had each other and a house just for them, nothing big or fancy, but perfect in every way, and they were going to choose a bed together to share every night.

(For some value of share – Aziraphale preferred not sleeping, but he had found the perfect arrangement of pillows that let him sit up quite comfortably for hours at a time, perhaps with a cup of cocoa, reading while Crowley slumbered beside him, or sometimes in his lap.)

“Right,” Aziraphale said, after he'd murmured soft loving things in Crowley's ear, not even to soften him up. “What do you think about this?” He produced an exact replica of a royal bed that had particularly appealed to him, hangings and all, though sized up a bit to fit the two of them comfortably. And with a modern mattress and pillows, obviously.

“Er,” Crowley said. “No.”

Fair enough; This was just the opening negotiations, Aziraphale hadn't really expected it to be accepted.

“What d'you think of this?” Crowley asked, unveiling something that was an idea of a bed.

“Darling, you know I can't abide anything that reeks Bauhaus, that _awful_ Walter Gropius just gives me _hives_ ,” Aziraphale moaned. “How about --”

So they went back and forth, between rococo and what might be best referred to as a machine for sleeping, until they'd worn each other down and met in the middle with something simple, graceful and rather Scandanavian. Dark wood in tapered shapes that arched over head- and foot-boards, with a rather comfortable headboard that gave Aziraphale something to lean against. Bedding was likewise simple, a mix of pale and dark colours, and mostly linens in summer and flannels in winter and an duvet suitable to the year round. Each chose his pillows, and the bed was neatly-made, ready in their bedroom for that night.

Aziraphale smiled, and found he couldn't really stop. “Our bed,” he said.

“Your first bed,” Crowley said proudly.

“ _Our_ first bed,” Aziraphale corrected, turning and taking Crowley's hands in his. “I wouldn't love it so much if it was mine alone.”

“Hngk,” Crowley said, and they rose as one to try the bed out. After all, if it wasn't comfortable for holding each other and snogging like teenagers, they'd have to start all over.

(It was perfect for that, and everything else they might want to do in it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bauhaus Weaving School was the best thing to come out of the movement and I cannot *stand* Walter Gropius, the end.


	18. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In punishment, Heaven turns Aziraphale’s wings to porcelain and destroys them; she and Crowley deal with what comes next. Angst with a joyful, hopeful ending.
> 
> (female-presenting Crowley and Aziraphale, established relationship, body horror, major character injury, blood, chronic pain)

They turned her wings to porcelain, and shattered them. Heaven's final punishment, because they thought they had killed her and Aziraphale, the angel who was pretty bad at being an angel, somehow failed to die. 

So they found her, and they turned her wings to white porcelain, and they shattered them, and that was what Crowley came home to, bag from the chippie in one hand and 'hey angel' on her lips. Her beloved facedown in their front room, shattered wings around her, the stumps still protruding from her back.

(It was decades before Crowley could abide the smell of chips and grease and fried food again, and even then it was generally Aziraphale who handled getting it from the shop.)

Aziraphale came to and moaned, and Crowley was at her side in an instant, stroking her hair, pushing eternally-messy silver curls out of her face. Some of the porcelain had cut her, and blood mixed with tears.

“Shh,” Crowley whispered. “Hush, hush, I'm here. I'm so sorry, angel. Go to sleep, okay? Go where you can't feel any pain, and I'll take care of everything, love.”

Aziraphale moaned again, and Crowley touched her cheek, and sent her into the deepest sleep she could. 

“Have a beautiful dream while you're there,” she murmured. “On the house.”

Crowley looked around her, taking her time. She was a seat-of-her-pants kind of demon to the bone, except when it came to Aziraphale. Aziraphale made her go slow, and Crowley would let herself be discorporated long before she even accidentally harmed her angel.

She started by touching the wing-stumps left behind, smoothing them and so very carefully taking them down to sit flush with Aziraphale's back. Her dress was shredded, the soft skin of her body visible between the rents. 

Crowley swallowed down a sudden rage, because they would have seen her body, her underwear, her skin, and somehow that was...obscene. Aziraphale was carefully modest, it had taken years for her to be comfortable wearing even a sundress around Crowley. She had been shaking, the first time she undressed down to her unders, and Crowley had taken her and absorbed the shaking, kissed her from head to toe and worshiped her perfect body. So Crowley was allowed to see the little dimples above her bottom, and the dent of her spine and the soft wings of her shoulder blades, but no one else.  _ No one else _ .

Another time. She would be angry another time. Now she polished the twin lines of porcelain to a gleam, and let them be. Maybe Aziraphale would let her cap them with gold and diamonds and rubies someday, or maybe she would prefer them unadorned. Whatever her angel wished.

(Wings didn't make a fucking angel, and Crowley was already preparing her arguments for this. Aziraphale was  _ her angel _ , in all her perfection and imperfection, this was not up for discussion.)

She looked around her then, and saw a single porcelain feather, somehow shattered precisely. Crowley picked it up and wrapped it in Aziraphale's hanky (because of course she carried a hanky), and set it aside. With a snap of her fingers, the rest of the detritus vanished, and it was their usual, slightly dusty, beloved sitting room again. 

Another snap of her fingers and Aziraphale's body healed, cuts stitching together, bloodstains vanishing, dress repairing itself. Crowley knelt one more time and gathered Aziraphale into her arms. This part seemed important to do the human way, she thought, as she carried her angel to their bedroom. She took Aziraphale's shoes off and tucked her into bed, and lay down beside her.

“You can sleep as long as you want,” she murmured. “It's all you now, darling. But don't sleep for too long? I love you, and I miss you.” And she took Aziraphale's hand in hers and laced their fingers together, and settled down to wait.

Her angel no longer kept her waiting, Crowley would give her that. It was a scant hour later when Aziraphale's breathing deepened, and her hand tightened in Crowley's.

“Hey angel,” Crowley said, trying to sound casual and warm and loving and steady and failing entirely.

Aziraphale gave a tiny gasp and opened her eyes. “Crowley! Crowley, you're all right, you're safe, they didn't get you --” And she flung herself into Crowley's arms, rolling them over to cover Crowley's body with her own, protecting with everything she had left.

“I'm fine,” Crowley said, and gave in, and let herself cry. “Dove, angel, darling, I'm fine, I was always fine. Shhh, I'm safe. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't keep you safe....”

“Hush,” Aziraphale said, and blinked hard. “It's worth it. If all it cost me was my wings...”

“Shut up!” Crowley hissed. “It shouldn't have cost you anything.”

“Well, no, not ideally.” Aziraphale smiled weakly. “Crowley, my back hurts.”

“Oh, _angel_.” Crowley hovered a hand just over Aziraphale's back, trying to find the edges of the pain. “Just give me a moment...” She frowned. It was right _there_ , why couldn't she do this for Aziraphale? _For God's sake_ , wasn't losing her wings enough?

“Yes,” Aziraphale said softly. “I can't block it, or heal it, either.”

“ _Fuckers_ ,” Crowley spat, and carefully rested her hand above the middle of Aziraphale's back, the soft crescent where her neck started, the first part of her she'd ever seen. “Whatever you need, we'll figure out out together. I love you. I love you so much. I meant to tell you when you woke up...”

Aziraphale smiled, and her body softened a little in Crowley's arms, though her back and shoulders were still tense in a way Crowley didn't like. “I know,” she murmured. “I know you gave me that sweet dream. I love you too. I think...I think I will need your love more than I did before.”

“All of me is yours, you know that,” Crowley said softly, and then she couldn't say anything at all, just hold her Aziraphale and stroke her hair, and rock her when she cried. Besides, what could anyone say to make this better? There wasn't any making it better, just the two of them loving each other as hard as they could. Well, that had always been good enough.

Crowley helped her change into something more comfortable when Aziraphale confessed she wanted to stay in bed. Undoing her bra herself was painful, so Crowley sorted that out for her with gentle fingers, but otherwise simply kept her company as she got into a soft old nightgown and crawled under the covers. Miracles felt too heavenly or demonic for the moment; Crowley desperately wanted to be just them, so that meant doing things the slower way.

“It's getting a little better,” Aziraphale reported. “I think. Or I'm getting used to it.”

Crowley nodded, and kissed the back of her hand. “D'you want some tea, angel? Cake?”

“Cake, yes.” Aziraphale smiled, looking very tired around her eyes. “No tea, though. Frankly, I want a whiskey. A large one.”

Crowley laughed. “So do I.” She contemplated leaving Aziraphale's side for a few minutes, dismissed the idea as preposterous, and snapped her fingers. This produced a small bed-table with a whiskey bottle, two glasses, a smaller bottle of water, and a plate of tiny cakes from Aziraphale's favourite patisserie, the one that had closed up shop in 1935.

Aziraphale got herself sitting up, though not quite leaning against the headboard, but she seemed comfortable enough so Crowley didn't fuss too much. Openly. Just kept her whiskey topped up, and the cakes too, and tried to be both chill and low-key and not hover too much while being ready for Aziraphale's absolute tiniest whim.

The next few days were always a sad haze in their memories, as they cried, separately and apart. They mourned Aziraphale's wings, and mourned the pain that stubbornly remained, that was already showing an ebb and flow so that there were days when Aziraphale could get up and dress herself and do as she liked, and there were days where she needed help with some things but was otherwise fine, and there were days when the pain was so great she could hardly get out of bed. They felt their way through all of these days, learning their new normal. Learning what it was the first time Aziraphale instinctively opened her wings and nothing happened, and the heartbroken wail that had nothing to do with physical pain. Learning how to dress her gently, on Crowley's part, how it was better to be impersonal and efficient about it. (And how Aziraphale still appreciated a little flirtation when she needed help  _ un _ dressing, or for that matter, when she didn't but Crowley just wanted to get her naked.) Curious, they read about chronic pain, Aziraphale sat in Crowley's lap while they peered at her phone, and found some things that helped and some that didn't. 

“I still won,” Aziraphale said, after they'd come home from a day spent at various National Trust sites, with generous attention paid to the tea rooms of course. It had been an okay-but-not-great pain day, but she was smiling, even as she settled on the sofa with a sincere sigh of relief. “Don't you go thinking they won, just because they took my wings.”

Crowley blinked at her in surprise. “Honest, angel, I never thought that.” She really hadn't. It was _so_ _clear_ that they had won out over Heaven and Hell. Crowley privately thought that she was truly the luckiest being in the universe, but that didn't discount Aziraphale's victory either.

Aziraphale grinned at her. “Good. Because I won. Because they're up  _ there _ , in that sterile, awful place, and I'm down  _ here _ , and some days I hurt too much to do anything, but I'm still not up  _ there _ . And I always have you. So I win.”

Crowley leaned over and kissed her, pouring all her love into it. “I win too,” she said. “In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't, actually, I knew that already.” Aziraphale winked at her. “Now. Let's open that Chardonnay you picked up the other day? I think it will be wonderful this evening.”

Crowley smiled, and kissed the top of her head, and went to go get everything. She expected Aziraphale was right; she usually was when it came to wine.


	19. Jade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A direct sequel to Ivory (set about an hour after that story ends), and in the same universe as Fruit. Crowley finds a pretty pendant and submits to being beloved by Aziraphale, it's the Actual Worst.
> 
> (Human AU, Jewish!Crowley, autistic!Aziraphale)

They shared quite a nice lunch courtesy Crowley running out to their favourite sandwich shop, and shared some nice kisses too, playful and silly and kind to one another. Crowley called Aziraphale ‘angel’ so often he even stopped rolling his eyes at the nickname. He had also started calling Crowley 'demon’ in return, and was a bit distressed at the way it both made Crowley’s eyes light up and made the pit of his own stomach rather warm.

“Up for another round of The Game?” Crowley asked after lunch was tucked away and tea brewed, and Aziraphale smiled and squeezed his hands, and pulled him in for one more kiss. He really was just remarkably lucky to have this man, and he intended to never let Crowley doubt how adored he was.

“Of course, darling. Go find us a good one.”

Crowley grinned and squeezed back, then took off to root through the dusty storage room.

He came back quickly enough, a funny sort of smile on his face. “Right so this is…an interesting one. Here.”

Aziraphale held out his hands and exclaimed with joy when Crowley dropped in fine carving of a snake, lacy and detailed, in beautiful green stone.

“Oh, this is a good one, darling, though I’m afraid I don’t know too much about it. It’s jade, of course, something one of my great-uncles bought on his travels.” Aziraphale turned the ornament around, admiring it. “I believe it was intended to hang from a hair ornament, but I’m afraid this isn’t really an area I know much about. Great-uncle Philip was very proud of it, and my grandmother enjoyed remembering him to me, when she told me about this.”

“It’s really lovely,” Crowley said. “Only –”

“Oh, you should have it!” Aziraphale interrupted. “Snakes are your thing, aren’t they? My dear, you must have this. Shall we get it set in a pendant for you?”

Crowley smiled and accepted the ornament back, and weighed it in his hand. “If you’re quite sure, I would very much like it. Only – angel, this isn’t jade,” he explained, smile growing. “Sorry. Uncles are such trouble, aren’t they? Mine was a jeweler, and taught me some tricks.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale blushed softly. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t trying to…to pass you inferior goods.”

Crowley smiled and traced the snake with a fingertip. “I didn’t think you were, and you don’t need to apologize to me for things like this, by the way – simple mistakes that hurt no one, I mean. It’s an exquisite piece. D'you know what jadeite is?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Similar to jade – looks a lot the same, I mean. But here, see how it’s the same colour throughout?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale put on his spectacles to peer closely at the thing, and once again Crowley cursed the entire universe for making him so _cute_. “Oh, yes – quite consistent.”

“Mmmhmm. Jade has more changes, more inclusions and ribbons of colour and the like. I’d be able to show you better with a jeweler’s loupe,” Crowley explained. He’d shifted to sit next to Aziraphale, just a little lower on his ottoman next to his angel’s sofa, and he leaned in again. “And this is harder but – well, it’s very light. Jade is quite heavy; surprisingly so. It’s startling, the first time you hold a piece of real jade, and feel the heft. But my uncle had a few pieces, so I got the feel of it. This is just far too light. Makes it a good choice for a pendant, though.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Well, so much for that family story. And many thanks to your uncle, and his education of you.”

Crowley grinned. “Yeah, hanging out with a jeweller is more interesting than you’d think.” He slipped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Still want to give it away, incidentally? It’s got a good story now.”

“I am not _giving it away_ ,” Aziraphale said primly. “I’m giving it to _you_ , it’s staying in the family. Just used and liked, now, rather than tucked away somewhere in a dusty corner.”

 _Like you_ , Crowley thought, while his voice shut down because he had a family again and Aziraphale was just absolutely the worst at wearing his emotions on his sleeve and…and pouring them all over Crowley. _You’re loved and cherished and I’m here now to go out and do fun things with you and show you the whole universe and help you navigate it. We promised G-d I’d do that, and I don’t break promises._

Blissfully unaware of Crowley’s quiet crisis concerning the mortifying ideal of being known _and_ being in love, Aziraphale chattered on, planning where to take it to get fitted to be a pendant, once he was on his feet again.


	20. Platinum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follow-up to Porcelain. Aziraphale wants some decoration on what's left of her wings, and needless to say Crowley is happy to supply it. (Along with kisses. So many kisses.)
> 
> (established romantic relationship, female-presenting Aziraphale and Crowley, chronic pain, consensual body modification)

“No, not gold,” Aziraphale said.

“Of course, angel,” Crowley replied. “Bit gaudy really, was getting carried away with myself.”

“ _Platinum_ ,” Aziraphale said. “And diamonds. Biggest ones you can make.”

Crowley whooped with joy, snapped her fingers, and shot her cuffs. “Now you're talking, angel!” And she laid her fingertips on the porcelain lines that were all that were left of Aziraphale's wings, and capped them in pure platinum, and inlaid them with great flashing diamonds, cut to show fire from any angle.

“Can you get to the mirror?” Crowley asked. “A picture isn't going to do this justice.”

“If you help me,” Aziraphale decided. “I don't bloody care how much I hurt, I want to see.”

Crowley laughed, and lifted her into her arms, holding Aziraphale easily. She'd gotten a lot stronger over the past few months, and carried her darling over to where there were three mirrors set up at angles, letting a rather vain angel (and demon) check her outfit from all sides. She settled Aziraphale to standing, and enjoyed the fruits of her labour.

Aziraphale looked over her shoulder at the various mirrors, and made a happy noise, and Crowley thought she'd never stop grinning. She even gave a happy little wiggle, and the diamonds flashed and gleamed. (And, for that matter, her bottom gave the cutest jiggle, which was  _ much _ appreciated by her companion.)

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale gloated. “That's a wonderful 'fuck you'. You're a gem, my dear.”

Crowley kissed her cheek. “Your idea.”

Aziraphale grinned, and leaned in Crowley's arms. “Still. Thank you. Can you please help me back to bed now?”

Crowley lifted her without another word, even as she laughed and tried to protest that this was too much. She helped Aziraphale get settled, getting into soft pyjamas and arranging pillows to ease her as much as she could be eased. And then lay down beside her, so close Crowley could feel the warmth from Aziraphale's body.

“My next good day, let's go into London,” Aziraphale decided. “I want to go to the V&A with you, please. And then you pick something.”

“Natural History Museum,” Crowley said immediately. It was fascinating, and so much fun, and had a million places to sit and rest if Aziraphale needed it. “And then taking you out to a fancy dinner, and we'll dress to the nines.”

Aziraphale giggled at the plans. “Oh yes, please. I want to make everyone jealous when we step out together.” She touched Crowley's cheek, and caressed her hair. It was in a blunt bob, the style popularized by Colette, a little halo of flame-coloured curls around her face. Aziraphale though it was really  _ incredibly _ fetching. She reached for Crowley and pulled her close, throwing a leg over her hip and kissing her, hungry and deep. She'd got used to doing this through the persistent ache in her back, and held out for as long as she could.

And then Crowley was there to catch her, give her time to just breathe and ease her body, help her into lying so it hurt the least.

“Can I braid your hair later?” she asked, playing with Aziraphale's curls. They were getting longer and longer, but stayed just as messy and fluffy as always.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and smiled into the kiss she got. “I love you, Crowley.”

“And I love you,” Crowley said happily, caressing her hip, thumb on her waist. “D'you need anything, sweet?”

“More kisses,” Aziraphale said, gazing up through her eyelashes because for some reason Crowley just deeply enjoyed being played like a fiddle. “Please? You'll have to be gentle, but I really want to kiss you a lot right now.”

“Oh, now there's a hardship,” Crowley murmured, already tilting her head, brushing her lips against Aziraphale's. “Kissing you. Real sacrifice on my part.”

“I am, though, sometimes.”

“Mmmm. In a way. But it's one we make over and over,” Crowley reminded her, before flicking out her tongue to touch Aziraphale's lips, the tiniest of pouts she got when she wore a femme body. “ _Both_ of us. We choose you, over and over and over again. Because I can't imagine life without you.” Aziraphale's mouth opened under hers, and she knew she'd been heard, and understood, and acknowledged, and now it was one hundred percent kissing time.

When they fell asleep later that night, Aziraphale's back pressed to Crowley's chest, and she grinned into the night, feeling the hard metal and diamonds she'd put there, the visible decoration of her living treasure. Maybe tomorrow they'd go into London. Maybe they'd sprawl in bed. Maybe it would be some different, wonderful thing. Crowley closed her eyes and drifted off, curious to see which it would be.


	21. Brass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale catch up on a summer evening in the 80's. Just a bit of canon-verse, in which they are grumbly middle-aged ethereal/occult creatures complaining about work.

It was a lovely May day in 1982, the first flush of summer threading its way even into London. Aziraphale purposely did not clean his shop windows more than one ineffective wipe per year – wouldn't do to be inviting – but even through the accumulated dust and dirt, sunlight was finding its way into the shop. Soft fingers of light penetrated past bookshelves, motes of dust dancing softly in the evening air. And the brass lamp by Aziraphale's desk caught the light just right, and gleamed in the soft sunlight.

He sipped his glass of wine, ruby and dull away from the fingers of sun, and smiled, and tilted his head back and sighed. All was quiet, the roar of London dull and far away, and he had his cocoon of books. His last blessing had been a success, and he hadn't heard from Heaven in months. And it would be summer soon, and promming and wonderful things all over the city, and perhaps he'd go to the seaside for two weeks, just to do the human thing. The air there was always so bracing.

He had just taken another sip of his wine when Crowley burst in the door, bringing a breeze and the smell of summer in the city with him.

“Angel! Good, good, you're here. Just got back from the dullest temptation you could ever imagine, absolutely dreadful. Someplace called _Mold_ , of course it was called that, _God_ I'm desperate for a drink!”

He flung himself down on his usual sofa, and Aziraphale cracked open an eye.

Crowley was wearing very tight and very black clothes, with a very large but also very black leather jacket over them. His hair was doing something odd and spikey, a style he'd seen on young men for the last, oooh, decade? Ish? And of course before that, but that was very long ago.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, and poured out another glass, and handed it over. The brass lamp still gleamed softly, and he admired the effect, the way it lit the wine up from Aziraphale's point of view.

“Ohhh, that's the stuff,” Crowley said happily, after a sip. “Knew you wouldn't abandon me in my hour of need.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I ought not share my wine with you at all, foul demon. What awful deeds do I have to make up for, anyway?”

“Oh _Satan_ , it's not even worth your time,” Crowley moaned, and took another sip to help him through the horrors of existence. “Nuns. What is it with Down There and nuns?”

Aziraphale fixed him with a disapproving look. “What did you do to them? An orgy, I suppose, with you in the starring role?”

“What? No. Ew.” Crowley took another sip of wine. “I convinced a couple of 'em to break into a nuclear armaments site, make it a whole thing. CND and all.”

“...I'm almost certain CND is my side?” Aziraphale said cautiously.

“Is it? Huh. Well, no matter, still got 'em on breaking and entering and causing a disturbance, and no one Down There knows what CND is, or probably what a nun even looks like.” Crowley regarded his wine and toasted himself. “Definitely quite demonic, getting them to do a bit of mischief, anyway. Set you right on the road to hell, that level of disobeying.”

“...Quite,” Aziraphale said. “Right, then, my dear, since you are back – dinner? After we finish the bottle, of course,” he said, not that either of them would ever have to deal with a half-empty bottle of wine.

“Of course, of course.” Crowley waved his hand. “Dinner'd be lovely, angel. Anywhere you fancy?”

“Oh, let's do the Ivy,” Aziraphale said. “You'll hardly have to get changed.”

“You might even bit a bit formal there,” Crowley said, and winked. “The Ivy it is.” A brief pause. “Right, reservation for us at eight.”

“Splendid,” Aziraphale approved. “Plenty of time.”

“'Course, angel.” Crowley lounged even more, somehow. “Well, you know what I've been up to. How's things on your end?”

“Oh, rather quiet, actually – the little everyday things, of course, finding five quid on the street, keeping the baby from falling out of the pram.” Aziraphale waved his hand. “Can't say I'm terribly sorry – I was Up There in March, of course, and I can't _tell_ you how dull Uriel was...”

The sun moved and dipped as they talked, Aziraphale making Crowley laugh with his imitations, Crowley making Aziraphale gasp with his profanities. Their conversations were always rich; they were both polymaths, curious, hated their jobs, and loved a good glass of wine. Friendships had been built on less, Aziraphale mused. Even considering Crowley was his sworn, hereditary enemy, and all right perhaps they were  _ like _ friends, but real friends was of course quite impossible. Quite.

Still. He kept their glasses topped up until it was time to depart, and was so involved in discussing a finer point of liberation theology, he didn't even notice the way the sun had moved, and dipped away, and the fine brass lamp lost its glow. No matter, anyway; it would be back the next sunny day, waiting to be admired.


	22. Copper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's hair by firelight is a thing of beauty. Then again, all parts of Crowley, in all lights, are beautiful.  
> (Crowley thinks the same thing about Aziraphale.)
> 
> (established relationship, arguably a transmasc body for Aziraphale although i didn't initially intend that)

“How did I never notice your hair in firelight?” Aziraphale asked, as he stroked the short, soft hair on Crowley's head. Crowley was boneless and heavy and sweet, lying sprawled atop him with his head resting on Aziraphale's chest.

“S'not my fault, we've been around enough firelight, a li'l thing called most of human history,” Crowely mumbled. “Only yourself to blame, angel.”

“And so I do,” Aziraphale said agreeably. Crowley had never cut his hair so short; it was maybe a centimetre or two long, sticking straight out and making the softest, most velvety fuzz. Aziraphale was utterly delighted by it, and it was probably good that Crowley responded rather like a cat, as he'd been petting the demon off and on all day.

“It's beautiful,” Aziraphale added. “Like copper.”

“Mmmnn.” Crowley smiled and snuggled a little closer. “If I'm copper, you're platinum.”

“I mean, yes, I _am_ platinum blond,” Aziraphale pointed out. “White in sunlight, yellow in the shade. But you, love, you're every colour of red and orange, especially like this.” He traced a fingertip across Crowley's scalp, watching the glints of colour change as the hairs were pressed down, then sprang back up. 

It had been a good ten minutes since he'd last kissed Crowley's head, so he took care of that, and then adjusted the duvet just a bit. It was an unusually chilly spring night, so they had lit the fire (after Crowley laid down a protective miracle that made Aziraphale's teeth tingle) and, more importantly, were snuggled under the covers together. And now Crowley's shoulder wouldn't get chilly.

Copper was malleable; soft and beautiful and easily worked. It made a fair weapon, but didn't hold much of an edge, and needed to be mixed with harder metals for anything that wasn't for pure beauty. It changed over time, aged and darkened, produced beautiful verdigris. Some of these things were a metaphor for Crowley, and some weren't.

Aziraphale loved poetry, but he loved the demon in his arms even more, so he left metaphors behind, and simply enjoyed holding his beloved. Crowley had fallen asleep with the warmth and the petting, and it was nice to watch him dream in the firelight.

If his hair had been beautiful by the fire, Aziraphale thought, there was nothing like the sun to catch the flash and gleam. They had gone on a good ramble, tackling some low hills not far from their cottage, and the chill of the night before had turned hot and sunny. Of course, Aziraphale did not sweat. And Crowley didn't either, although he suspected that was because Crowley was wearing  _ perhaps _ two square metres of fabric. Even that might be a bit generous, and that was including his boots.

His body hair was coppered too, arm and leg and chest, and glinted, though in different, darker colours. It was a lovely little secret to have, Aziraphale thought; perhaps he was the only being to have noticed the specific hue and changeability of Crowley's body hair. It was wiry and rough under his fingers, and he liked how it felt against his own skin. 

(His body hair was pale and fine, almost downy, which led to plenty of feather jokes, but also to Crowley kissing his limbs with such utter softness.

“I don't want to bruise you,” he had confessed once.

“I'm not a peach,” Aziraphale had said, bemused. 

“Shows what you know,” Crowley replied, inevitably.

“Besides,” Aziraphale said practically, “I've been bruised before. It's not terminal.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and he hadn't been teasing anymore. “But _I_ don't want to bruise you. Too fucking many beings have before.”

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale said, hopelessly, and he had essentially thrown himself into Crowley's arms.

Even with what they had done next, there wasn't a single bruise on Aziraphale's body the next morning.)

So they tramped through the hills, Crowley blazing copper and black and mostly skin beside him, and Aziraphale in a proper walking costume of pale linen fabrics, and they argued about who was dressed more sensibly, and about the way to go at every single solitary fork in the path. They got horrifically lost and Crowley fell in a ditch and Aziraphale had to fish him out, and it was, they agreed, an absolutely  _ superb _ day out.

That night found them in bed again, although with the fireplace cold and the two of them on top of the duvet rather than under it. Their bedroom was dark, lit only by a half-moon, and the copper of Crowley's hair was dark, though it was still soft as ever, of course. 

“If firelight loves me, than the moon and stars love you,” Crowley murmured, carding his fingers through Aziraphale's curls, breaking them and turning them to hopeless fluff.

“ _You_ love me,” Aziraphale said, drunk on the very concept. (Also a bottle of champagne.)

“I do love you,” Crowley agreed with a smile. “But look how the light catches your hair.” He touched Aziraphale's arm, where indeed the fine hairs there caught even the weak moonlight. “You look like you're half made out of light.”

“I think technically I _am_.” Aziraphale smiled and kissed over Crowley's heart, for tonight it was his turn to be the one held, the one pillowing his head on his lover's chest. “S'pose that's nice, that I look nice,” he murmured, not thinking very much. “I don't care what else loves me, long as you keep it up.”

“Forever and always,” Crowley promised softly. “Not so good with words, I know. But tell you that every day of your life. Love you forever, dove. And your platinum hair.”

Aziraphale giggled softly. He was beloved, by someone who cared. Crowley made him tea and liked his conversation and, well, put up with his magic tricks. Crowley healed him if he got hurt, and cuddled and kissed and soothed him when he was sad. It would never stop being something that Aziraphale couldn't quite look directly at, for fear that it would destroy him with its beauty.

He smiled, and rested his hand on Crowley's chest, fingertips among the wiry copper-coloured hair, while his love held him close, and fell asleep, his hand still tangled in Aziraphale's hair.


	23. Topaz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week before their wedding day, Aziraphale shows off her dress, and they love on one another.
> 
> (Human AU, ftm!Crowley, mtf!Aziraphale, disabled!Crowley, maybe a touch of angst courtesy who Crowley is as a person, but mostly cuddling)

“It's beautiful, sweetheart.” Crowley tilted his head and examined the dress. “Not white? Would've pegged you for tradition through and through.”

“Yes, because if there's one thing about me, it's that I do what's expected of me,” Aziraphale said dryly, and it was a good thing Crowley was already sitting down, he laughed that hard.

“You're going to be such a good bride,” he said, just to watch Aziraphale shiver all over. She zipped the garment bag up, and tucked it away in her wardrobe, safe and sound until the wedding next week. As soon as she was within arm's reach, he touched her waist, pulled her in, and got her on his lap. Incidentally, his favourite place for her to be. “But why yellow, really?”

“It's not yellow, it's _topaz_ ,” she said patiently. “And you really couldn't tell?”

Puzzled, Crowley shook his head.

“It's the colour of your eyes, love,” she said softly. “Silly man.”

Crowley blinked suddenly, hard, and was very glad he'd left his sunglasses on, he was exposed enough as it was. “Angel,” he said, his voice scratchy, starting to pitch high.

“What was I going to do, ignore one of the things I love about you?” she pointed out, and cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him. 

“See, this is why you should've let me wear the trans pride-coloured suit,” he managed, when he could talk again. “I'd've looked brilliant in colours next to you.”

“You'd've looked _tacky_ ,” Aziraphale said, and sighed when Crowley gave her a nonplussed look. “I have _standards_ , my dear.” Another kiss. “Besides, light colours wash you out. You don't wear anything lighter than a charcoal, so surely you know _that_.”

“Nah, just gotta reflect my blackened demonic heart on my outside,” Crowley said cheerfully.

Aziraphale rested her hand on Crowley's chest, just over said heart. Still gentle, though the scars on either side of her hand were healed now. It was still funny, not to feel his binder anymore, and beautiful, to see the body that was right for him. “Oh, of course, darling, quite right,” she told the softest, cuddliest, most loving creature she'd ever known.

“Besides,” Aziraphale added practically, “you'll have a lapel pin and my bouquet will have white, pink and blue in it.”

Crowley smiled and gave her a little squeeze. “You're the most beautiful woman in the world, did I mention that?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said cheerfully. “You're going to make me vain.”

“Good. I hope so.” He grinned and grazed his hand over one of her breasts. “That dress looked awfully low-cut.”

“Well.” Aziraphale went a little pink. “You know how it is, these fashions today.”

Crowley checked in with her, silently, forefinger and thumb on the button of her shirt. She gave the tiniest nod, so he slipped the button through, opening her shirt a bit more and catching sight of pink lace. 

“It's a bit silly, I know, they're still so small,” Aziraphale started to apologize, but he kissed her, and kissed her again.

“Your breasts are beautiful,” he said. “Along with the rest of your body, and your heart and mind and everything about you, Aziraphale. You're allowed to show them off if you like.”

Aziraphale blushed, and smiled. “I did grow them myself,” she joked, and Crowley gave her a little hug.

“See? That's the spirit,” he teased, and dipped his head to kiss the still-new curve, the lace of her bralette soft under his lips. “I love you. A week from today, we'll be married.”

“You'll be my husband,” Aziraphale said, her voice soft with awe. “And I'll be a wife. _Your_ wife. In a dress the colour of your eyes, and a bouquet that's a pride flag, and the whole fucking world will know that you're the best man I've ever known. The best thing to ever happen to me.”

Crowley couldn't speak around the lump in his throat, just nodded, took off his glasses, and pressed his face into her neck, the crisp cotton of her shirt nice against his face. He was going to sob through his vows, he already knew. He hadn't even tried to write his own, there weren't  _ words _ for Aziraphale. How the fuck was he supposed to tell everyone about his own personal angel, his best friend for his whole life? How she had cared for him after top surgery and made him laugh every day and drove him up a fucking wall with her fussiness and her insistence on being right. How she loved his imperfections, and he loved hers. How they figured out transitioning together, gave each other advice and protected one another against the world. Those words weren't for anybody else, and anyway, how would he ever get them out?

“There now,” Aziraphale said gently, when he could face the world again. “Shall we go get dinner? My treat, I believe.”

“We have a shared bank account, but all right,” Crowley teased, and patted her generous hip. “Dinner it is.”

Aziraphale got up, and Crowley put on his dark glasses to keep from startling people with his colobama eyes, and grabbed his cane to make his snake-hipped walk a little easier. One more kiss, just because, and Aziraphale even found her wallet in record time. They plunged back into the city, in love and a little breathless from it. 

The two of them soon vanished into the crowds, just two people on a night out in London, in a beautiful world they loved nearly as much as each other.


	24. Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to the last chapter, Topaz. Aziraphale and Crowley on their honeymoon!
> 
> (Human AU, ftm!Crowley, mtf!Aziraphale, disabled!Crowley, explicit (if summarized) descriptions of sex)

“Oh, look!” Aziraphale knelt down and picked something up, and showed it to Crowley. It was a heart-shaped stone, grey and rough and unimpressive, but for its perfect shape. “It was right there in the path, and no one else saw it,” she marvelled.

Crowley looked at the little thing, and groaned. “Oh, c'mon angel. That's sentimental even for you.”

“Nothing's too sentimental for me,” Aziraphale argued, and put it in her pocket. “It's a blessing from the very earth, darling.”

Crowley made a long whining noise as they set off again. The path here was wide and smooth and even mostly flat, so he did just fine with his stick. Unfortunately, it was all low, soft hills here, and thus there were no convenient cliffs to fling himself off of. Three months of married bliss only to lead to Aziraphale cooing over a heart-shaped rock that somehow hundreds of other people had missed, and so it was clearly meant for them. Yeeting himself into the sea felt the appropriate response, to Crowley's black and unsentimental soul.

He (and his shrivelled demon's soul) reached over and slipped his hand into Aziraphale's, feeling her wedding ring against his palm, and caressed her knuckles with his thumb for absolutely no discernible reason, and certainly not because they were on their honeymoon and he was stupid in love.

Aziraphale was kind enough to not look directly at him, only to squeeze his hand and comment on how it was nice the rain was holding off, wasn't it?

They had picked Scotland for their honeymoon on account of they could afford it, and the Western Isles were beautiful, and maybe it might rain the whole time and they could stay in their tiny rented cottage and have increasingly creative sex most of the time they were awake. Which they had definitely done for the first three days. 

The fourth day had dawned blue and clear. Aziraphale was already up as usual, and had made a pot of tea. She came over with a mug for Crowley, and slipped into bed beside him for a good-morning cuddle.

He had sipped appreciatively, head on her shoulder, when it occurred to him that something was different. Not bad-different just...off.

“You're wearing clothes!”

Aziraphale looked down at her very short robe. “Well, technically. Broadly speaking.” It didn't leave much to the imagination.

“You haven't had a stitch on in days,” Crowley pointed out, and set his tea aside to stroke her thigh, fingers dancing softly over the lines of her stretch marks. He had spent all last night drawing them in with a gold eyeshadow pencil just to make her giggle. And then he'd sucked her off, flipped her on her belly and used their favourite strap-on...

Crowley pulled his mind back to the present and, not incidentally, the pleasant ache in his cunt. And thighs. And arms. “Love? D'you want to do something else today?”

“Honestly? Yes.” Aziraphale smiled, and trailed a fingertip up his chest, taking a little detour to tweak a nipple. “Maybe not all day. But for a bit, let's explore and go out and actually see the place?” 

“We'll still be together, after all,” Crowley said, like they hadn't been practically attached at the hip since he'd moved down the road from Aziraphale's family when they were both ten years old.

“There's a nice path for a ramble nearby,” Aziraphale said, running her fingers through Crowley's hair, encouraging him to snuggle closer. “I checked the guidebook, and it looks fine for you.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Crowley admitted. They loved going on rambles together, exploring the world and loving every part of it. Aziraphale was a decent twitcher, and Crowley could identify every tree and most of the plants they came across. Even after his terrible fall, and the damage it had left, they had found places and ways to go on long walks together. Their honeymoon shouldn't be any different.

Aziraphale grinned and kissed him, and kissed his tattoo, and the fine line of his collarbone. “I love you, Crowley.”

“Love you too, Zira,” Crowley said softly. He gulped down the rest of his tea, the easier to pull Aziraphale fully into his arms, his wife and his beloved and his best friend.

All right, maybe they could make love a  _ little _ before they set out. If they were soft and easy; but then that had never been a hardship for either of them, when it came to the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The heart-shaped rock is a real thing I found right after I moved to Seattle, just sitting there in the path, a gift from the land. I was so disgusted I kept it, and it's on a shelf right behind me as I write this.


	25. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same Human AU as the previous two stories. Crowley and Aziraphale have a little spat, and Aziraphale apologizes the best way she can think of.
> 
> (lightly nsfw, mtf!Aziraphale, ftm!Crowley, established relationship, disabled!Crowley)

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I shouldn't have said those things to you.”

Crowley sighed. “No, you shouldn't have.”

Aziraphale rubbed her forehead. “None of them are true,” she said quietly. “I know that in no way forgives me, but not one thing I said was true. I was frightened and angry. I'm so, so sorry, love.”

Crowley gave her a half-smile, and held out his arms. “I know you are, Aziraphale. Thank you.”

Aziraphale, who would normally have flown into his arms, went gently this time, cautious of the scars on his chest that were still a bit fresh. Hugging had been a careful thing since his top surgery, and in this, at least, she could keep from hurting him.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much, Crowley.”

“I love you too,” he reminded her. “Always.”

Aziraphale smiled, and touched her thumb to the silver ring Crowley had given her not so long ago. And what it meant; the yes she had given him, when he'd asked her to marry him. They'd been together for so long, it was practically a formality, except for the part where it wasn't, at all. They'd be united in marriage as their selves, their  _ real _ selves, the people they'd been working towards together for so long. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she said suddenly.

“Hmmm?” Crowley asked, used to her quick changes in mood by now.

“Is this the hormones?” she asked. Those were new too. So far she liked the ring better.

Crowley smiled and kissed her cheek. “Maybe a little. But, uh, don't take this the wrong way...”

“No, no, I was a judgemental old queen before I started transitioning too,” she assured him. “Sorry. Just. Ugh.” She made a face, and then shook herself. “I'm sorry,” she said again, quietly. “It's not about me.” Azirpahale sat up a little, and touched the back of her fingers to Crowley's cheek, scratchy and unshaven, and it made her smile. 

He took her hand and kissed the engagement ring. “No, but it's not wholly about me,” he said.

“Really? Because I'd like it to be.” Aziraphale smiled, and touched the tips of their noses together. “What could I do right now, to make you happy, and know you're loved?”

Crowley gave a little shiver, and hugged her. “Oh, angel, no, you just...you don't have to do that.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “If you say so.” She smiled. “What's your favourite time I ever kissed you?”

Crowley eased immediately, and hah. She  _ did _ need to remind him that he was wonderful, and very loved, and worthy of that love.

He played with her ring thoughtfully, spinning it around her finger. It was absolutely disgustingly romantic, but if she ever had to take it off for something, she asked him to put it back on. Probably she'd get past wanting that in time, but not yet.

“The first time,” he finally said. “I think. At least right now.” He grinned. “Thought I'd gone and won the lottery, my best friend kissing me back. Your mouth was so nice, and you made that happy little noise.”

Aziraphale giggled, and couldn't stop a tiny wiggle of joy. “Good. I was so scared, and so happy. You  _ liked _ me! But I had hardly kissed anybody and I was so scared of being bad, or hurting you, or scaring you or something...”

Crowley smiled. “You were always so gentle with me. Always are, I mean.” He thought for a moment about some of their nights in. “Well. Unless I ask otherwise,” he added, in the spirit of accuracy.

“Making up for everyone who never was. Gentle with you, I mean. And 'cause I like it,” Aziraphale added in the spirit of honesty. “Unless you ask otherwise. I like that too.”

“How about you? Favourite kiss from me?” Crowley asked, squeezing her in a little hug.

“When I told you I was a woman,” Aziraphale said, without even pausing to think. “And you didn't say anything, just pulled me into you arms and kissed me, and I knew I wasn't losing anything.”

Crowley's jaw dropped. “I –  _ wot _ ?? I never knew you were so worried! Jesus  _ Christ _ , angel, you should have...I...argh!” He hugged her tight, until it hurt. “I love you  _ so much _ .”

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said softly. “And I didn't think you'd hate me or anything.” She smiled and looked down, and touched her silver ring. “But you've never been interested in women before. And I don't know, it felt like...you might think I was copying you, or something stupid. I knew we'd be friends, but I didn't know if you'd want to be with me, date me I mean. Or if you'd need some time to think about it. But you didn't hesitate at all, and you were so happy for me.” Tears pricked her eyes. “And you kissed me, same as you always had before.”

“Oh, angel-girl.” Crowley smiled. “How could I not be attracted to you? Prettiest woman in the world, after all.”

“Oh my _God_ , stop,” Aziraphale said, laughing. “I am not.”

“Says you. What d'you know? You think I'm cute.”

“You are cute,” Aziraphale said.

“Am not. I'm dashing and handsome and mysteriously sexy,” Crowley said, striking a pose and making her laugh.

“You are,” she agreed. “But mostly you're cute.” She kissed his cheek. “Oi, I was supposed to be cheering _you_ up.” 

“You are. You did.” Crowley smiled at her. “Y'know my other favourite kiss? Well, one of the others?”

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“When I woke up in hospital after my fall, and you kissed me. And I was alive and aware enough to be kissed and enjoy it. We could get through anything, if you could kiss me and I could smile and kiss you back.”

Aziraphale blinked suspiciously shiny eyes. “I was so scared, and so happy you were alive and awake and aware. I could've kissed you for days.”

“Which is about what I remember, when I finally went home,” Crowley teased, and Aziraphale giggled.

“Really? Because mostly what I remember is when you were cleared for sex,” she said. “I should've taken more time off work.”

“Yeah, probably,” Crowley freely admitted, with a happy sigh for happy memories. 

Aziraphale smiled, and kissed him, a little deeper, though, and a little slower. She turned so she straddled his lap, their bellies pressed together.

Crowley tilted his head to deepen the kiss, and she sighed and shifted against him, kissing down his jawline, to his neck, to the soft place under his ear. “Handsome,” she whispered. “ _ Mine _ .”

Aziraphale's possessiveness always sent a shot of electricity down his spine, and this time it was accompanied by a little 'urk'.

“My man,” she hissed, and he made a noise again.

“Make up for lost time?” Aziraphale asked, and slipped her hand down the front of his trousers. It wasn't that she didn't believe in foreplay, because she _very_ much did. It was more that she believed everything was potentially foreplay, and it made Crowley dizzy in the best possible way. She'd once fucked him after taking a single bite of a pastry he'd brought her, just laid him over the kitchen table and gone to town, and it had resulted in an orgasm that left stars in his vision for _several_ minutes.

“ _Yes_ ,” he managed, as clearly as he could, as his sweet angel and her clever fingers started to work their magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently if I'm not writing her as ace, I just....really enjoy Aziraphale being a completely insatiable horndog who is 100% dtf at all times, and has never met a kink she wouldn't at least take out for a spin.


	26. Photos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale re-finds some vintage pornography featuring himself. Crowley survives. Barely.
> 
> (NSFW, male-presenting Aziraphale, female-presenting Aziraphale (in the past), male-presenting Crowley)

“Oh, goodness, these old things!” Aziraphale marvelled, opening the one hundred and forty-seven millionth cigar box of the day.

Crowley had been counting.

He was _not_ exaggerating.

Well, perhaps a little.

They were packing up his things. Well, not  _really_ . Packing up part of his things. The bits Aziraphale wanted to bring with him to the cottage – their cottage.

(Crowley still kind of wanted to turn into a snake if he thought about that for too long.)

Packing itself might be a generous term; things  _were_ going into boxes, and were then miraculously moved to the cottage, neither of them ever seeing any need to exert themselves, and after all books were terribly heavy. For it mostly was books, of course; though Aziraphale had packed some crystal decanters and an old teakettle and the teapot they'd used since the Queen's coronation. But mostly it was books. And his collection of silver snuffboxes. And his other collection of fountain pens. And his collection of fine wool blankets, although to be honest, Crowley rather approved of those. Even if every single one was in a tacky, awful pattern, they were still  _warm_ , and his memories of non-city places were generally of lasting, bitter cold. Central heating was all well and good, but there was  _wind_ out there.

He wondered what collection this one was.

“What is it, angel?” he asked idly.

“Gosh, look at them, I'd forgotten they'd ever been taken,” Aziraphale marvelled.

Crowley did something impossible with his spine, and looked over Aziraphale's shoulder. And sprayed a mouthful of tea absolutely  _everywhere_ .

“My _dear_!” Aziraphale cried out, horrified, and Crowley managed to wave his hand and miraculously remove all spots of tea. From the photos. Of Aziraphale. In the altogether.

He finished coughing up the bit of tea he'd inhaled, and checked again, and yes, there was Aziraphale, in a corset and stockings and  _nothing else_ . This was extremely evident from his cock in hand.

“Warn a demon, will you?” Crowley wheezed.

“Oh for heaven's sake, you know what I enjoy,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes.

“I didn't know homemade porn was one of those things!” Crowley squeaked, his voice almost back to normal.

“Home-made? _Home-made_? My dear serpent, I will have you know that these were made by the finest photographer of the era! One of them, certainly.” Aziraphale smiled warmly down at the pile of photos, and moved the one that had nearly killed Crowley, to reveal the one that would definitely kill him.

It was nearly the same set-up, except that there was another man in the image, dressed (or not) similarly to Aziraphale, and also sucking Aziraphale's cock.

“Hrngle,” Crowley said, but he also could not help but notice that the other man looked not unlike himself, and chose to have a little preen over this. And also plan a trip to a corsetiere for the two of them, so they could reenact it.

“These are _art_ ,” Aziraphale said proudly, lifting each one away to reveal a new layer of treasure. Aziraphale quite naked, posing beautifully. Aziraphale getting himself off. Aziraphale sucking off other men. Some very creative acrobatics.

“I didn't know you were that flexible,” Crowley said at one particularly interesting photograph.

“Oh, goodness, I'm not at all – Tarquin is really doing most of the work there,” Aziraphale admitted. He smiled and touched the edge of the photo. “He was such a dear young man. You would have adored him.”

“I'm sure I would,” Crowley said gently, and kissed the top of Aziraphale's head. There was going 'oo-ar matron' at vintage pornography of one's beloved, and then there was remembering those now gone.

Aziraphale didn't dwell, though, just remarked over happy times, fond memories of friends and lovers. Each of the photos was gorgeous, and very, very sexy.

“We're definitely bringing these with us, right?” Crowley asked, already daydreaming of recreating a few of them. He was at _least_ as flexible as Tarquin had been.

“Oh, goodness, do you want to? They're so old, and it was such a silly bit of fun on my part.” Aziraphale gave him a sideways smile. “Though I wouldn't blame you for wanting ones of the other boys...”

“Oi, I want ones of you too, angel!” Crowley protested. “You're...you're just fucking gorgeous!” He picked out one of Aziraphale lying underneath a very fake tree in the photographer's studio, a rather sweet smile on his face, one knee cocked up. Emphasis on the cock. “Can I put this over my desk? No one'll see it, I promise!”

“Oh, you!” Aziraphale literally batted his eyelashes. “Are you quite sure?”

He did love to fish for compliments, did Aziraphale. And Crowley loved to feed them to him. One, because everything he said was true. Two, because sometimes Aziraphale  _was_ a little wobbly about feeling good about himself. Three, it was fun and probably a sign of demonic influence?

“Really sure,” Crowley said softly, genuine for a moment. “You're so gorgeous, angel. In all of them. But I like this one.” He kissed Aziraphale slow and soft, tongue touching his lips, which of course parted to let him in, all hot breath and slow, slow kisses.

He kissed until Aziraphale moaned, and Crowley's own cock was starting to sit up and take notice, so to speak.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled sweetly. “You'd better see the other box, then. See if you want something from that.”

“More?” Crowley asked, delighted. 

Aziraphale just smiled, reached for another cigar box, and opened it. “Different photographer, of course.”

At least this time Crowley didn't spray tea everywhere, although he couldn't be blamed. Another pile of photos was in the box, of course. And on top, front and centre, was Aziraphale sitting in a plain chair, legs spread to show her cunny to the world, her hands playing with her generous breasts.

Crowley said a lot of things, for a long time, and then they didn't get any more packing done, but that was all right. They had plenty of fun anyway, and of course all the photos came with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least one of the photos I describe is based on real Victorian pornography that I had a lot of fun researching for this chapter!


	27. Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To cheer Aziraphale up, Crowley brings him some gifts that once belonged to an old friend.
> 
> (platonic friendship, implied past abuse from heaven, hurt/comfort, bittersweet with a happy ending)

Aziraphale lay down on his sofa. Well, it was a sofa now, long enough that he could lie comfortably. Sitting up was just...not painful, not precisely. His corporation was unharmed, not even the little aches and pains one might expect in a human his perceived age. But it wasn't good, and his body didn't like it, so he lay on his sofa, hand pressed to his eyes. He just had to wait. This would heal; what had been done to his true form. The things that had been said to him...that would heal too. He'd push it away, he was good at that, and everything would be just fine in a day or two. He just had to endure until then, and suffering was supposed to be good for the soul.

“Angel?”

Oh. Crowley. Aziraphale smiled, and was pleased to find that it wasn't forced. 

“Back here,” he called, and gathered the energy to sit up. Crowley would probably like dinner out, and Aziraphale _did_ enjoy time with him. 

“Be with you in a moment, dearest,” he said, and pressed between his eyes, willing his headache-that-wasn't-exactly-such to go away.

“Nah, stay where you are,” Crowley said with what Aziraphale could tell was studied casualness. 

A casualness completely abandoned when he sputtered “Didn't you hear me?” as Aziraphale made to sit up.

“Of course I did, but I certainly wouldn't want to be rude to you,” he explained, riding out a wave of dizziness. They always passed.

Crowley, now beside him, peered through the dim light and hissed. “What did they do to you?” he demanded. “Lie down this instant, angel, you'll make yourself ill.”

Aziaphale didn't protest, and in fact did lie down, and his lips tightened when he saw Crowley's eyes widen, even behind his glasses. “Nothing, really,” he said. “A sharp note is all. It's nothing to be concerned with, my dear.”

Crowley hissed again, and dropped into the chair that was usually Aziraphale's. “Sharp note, eh?” he growled.

“It's nothing,” Aziraphale repeated, and closed his eyes. “I'll be right as rain in another day or two.”

He barely heard the soft sigh, but definitely felt the hand on his brow. “I know,” Crowley said quietly. “Oi. Brought you a present.”

Aziraphale smiled, and opened his eyes. “Since when did you give me presents?”

“Since now,” Crowley said, and handed him a small paper bag. “I'll read 'em to you, if you want.”

“You got me books?” Aziraphale's smile grew a little wider. “Truly, dearest, what's the occasion?”

Crowley shrugged. “We need an occasion now?”

“Well, I suppose we never have before, not really.” Aziraphale did push himself up a little, just so he could open the bag a bit more easily, and he pulled out two slim volumes. “Oh, my dear!” _The Ballad of Reading Gaol_ , the 1898 edition, and a very early edition of _The Happy Prince and Other Stories_. They were beautiful; worn and well-loved, and of course he had copies of both of them already, but it was the thought that counted. “How very kind of you, I do thank you,” he said, and meant it with all of him.

Crowley smiled. “Open them, angel.”

Curious, Aziraphale did so, opening first one and then, when he saw what was written on the flyleaf, very quickly opening the other.

“Crowley.” He sat up, all pain pushed away now. “Crowley, where did you get these?”

“Does it matter?” Crowley asked quietly.

“No. No, it doesn't.” Aziraphale touched the signature tenderly, closed the books, and hugged them to his chest. “Are there others?”

“I only found those,” Crowley said. “I don't think there are any others.”

Aziraphale nodded, and hugged the books again, the way he would a dear friend. The way he would their owner. 

He opened  _The Ballad_ again and smiled sadly, tracing the inked lines with a fingertip. Oscar's handwriting, declaring the book a gift to Robbie. The books had clearly been Robbie Ross' personal copies, gifts of friendship and fondness. Well-read and well-loved, as he had loved the man who'd written them. Aziraphale had known and loved them both. “Dear Robbie,” he said softly. “I'll take care of them for you, darling.” Feeling worn out and old and tender, he lay down again, fingertips gently stroking the cover. 

“Would you like me to read to you?” Crowley asked again, trying to be blasé so hard it made Aziraphale's heart hurt in the best way. “I can find your copies, if you don't want to chance me damaging these.”

Aziraphale smiled and handed the books over without a second thought. “I think they're quite safe with you, dear boy. And I should like that very much. Put on a lamp, though, or you'll strain your eyes.”

“I can see in the _dark_ ,” Crowley muttered, but he did turn on a lamp, and a pool of golden light made a soft, safe little nook for the two of them. As always, he went for the one that wasn't _gloomy_ , honestly it was a lucky thing for the angel that he'd found the second book. He opened to the first page, and began to read.

“High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires...”


	28. Sculpture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a follow-up to Day 8, Bronze, they find a sculpture of Crowley. The subject is...not what one would expect.
> 
> (established relationship, mildly nsfw, sexual relationship)

“You can stop now,” Crowley said sarcastically, as Aziraphale laughed so hard he had to sit down. It was a good thing people habitually ignored them both – with help from little miracles – because Aziraphale was causing a _scene_.

“Oh I most certainly will not.” Aziraphale actually pulled out a spotted handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “This is the greatest day of my life.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You have an infinite lifespan, you know.”

“Well, theoretically.” Aziraphale smiled when Crowley glowered at this. Protective old serpent. “Really, my dear. You enjoyed that sculpture of me last year plenty.”  
“That is _entirely different_ ,” Crowley insisted.

“Oh?” Aziraphale got up and began to circle around the marble statue again, admiring it from every angle. “How so? Also you've never had tits that big for _me_.”

“Oh, I didn't know you liked that way. Next time I go femme,” Crowley promised.

Aziraphale waved his hand. “I mean, I'm certainly not complaining, darling. But if you'd like.” He sighed happily, and regarded the statue. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“Well...well for one, I wasn't schtupping the artist!” Crowley protested.

Aziraphale looked at him over the rim of his reading glasses, which he was wearing in order, he said, to read the labels better, but actually, they both knew, because they made him look nifty.

“Oh all right, but just the once,” Crowley said, visibly sulking.

“Awww,” Aziraphale said, and patted his shoulder. “I'm sure he would have liked more than once.”

Crowley smiled, and tilted his head to one side. “I do make a pretty woman, don't I?”

“Absolutely breathtaking,” Aziraphale assured him. “It's a beautiful sculpture, you know. He really captured you.”

Crowley preened a bit, pleased and feeling lucky to have landed Aziraphale. He was such a good lover, and very generous with the compliments. “I can still twist my spine like that, you know.”

“I know, darling,” Aziraphale said with a happy sigh, full of memories. “I do hope you had a nice cushion to sit on, though. Your bottom doesn't...really bring its own, and that rock looks a bit rough.”

“We can't all be as lucky as you, angel,” Crowley said, falling a step behind to admire Aziraphale's natural cushioning, so to speak. “But I did have a cushion, as it happens. He took quite good care of me.”

Aziraphale nodded, accepting that Crowley was perhaps treated with close to respect and love he ought to be at all times. “I'm sure he did. But he  _can't_ have known you so well as all that.”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe not. Easy come, easy go?”

“Fair.” Aziraphale smiled, regarding the lovely statue one more time, and once more marvelling that someone, _anyone_ , thought that Crowley would make a good model for a statue titled _Temperance_.


	29. Coral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 100% pure porn with feelings and character moments but did I mention that it's pure smut?
> 
> (female-presenting aziraphale, female-presenting crowley, bondage and domination/submission, light masochism (Aziraphale likes getting bruises), over-stimulation, crying orgasms, penetration)

At first glance, what had happened was obvious. The demon had captured the angel, probably with some clever trick to cause the Heavenly creature to let down her guard, and fall into Hellish hands. She had then bound the angel securely, wrists tied to the bedposts with what _looked_ like silk scarves, but surely were cursed objects, for how else could two wisps of fabric hold the Guardian of the Eastern Gate? There was a bar between her ankles, bound again with what had to be demon magic. Perhaps the pretty floral print on the bars was also demonic? Skulls and such, hiding among the sprays of springtime flowers. Either way, the demon had forced the angel's legs apart, even as she drew the angel's knees up, even as she pressed the bar down, the better to spread angelic legs. The angel moaned loudly, and the demon laughed, as you would expect.

You would, of course, be entirely wrong about everything.

“Pretty, pretty angel-girl,” Crowley praised, gazing down at Aziraphale, her round thighs now framing her round belly and her round breasts, a collection of soft surface.

Aziraphale moaned again and tugged her hands, pulling hard on the silk.

“Gentle, love,” Crowley said softly, “gentle, or you'll bruise yourself.”

“I fucking well hope I do,” Aziraphale panted. “You fucking tease.”

Crowley cackled again, lowered Aziraphale's feet to the bed, and leaned over and kissed her. She plunged her tongue into Aziraphale's mouth, miming what she had just finished doing with the dildo that lay tossed to one side, to be brought in once more if Aziraphale whined about feeling empty again. The angel groaned beautifully and arched her back, her breasts pressing against Crowley's body.

Feeling pretty sure she was dancing on the edge of angelic destruction, Crowley trailed her fingers down Aziraphale's chest, rubbing her thumb across a sweet, dark nipple along the way, then over the mound of Aziraphale's belly. She followed with her mouth, pressing wet, open kisses to Aziraphale's breast, suckling on her nipple and feeling it harden under her tongue, spreading her mouth wider, teeth scraping the area around her areola. And, so Aziraphale could feel it, sliding her fingers past Aziraphale's spread cunny and beginning to massage between her own legs.

“You _bitch_!” Aziraphale accused, and Crowley bit down, hard enough to bruise. She...did not love leaving marks on Aziraphale. But _Aziraphale_ sure as fuck loved getting those marks, and she was being her brattiest today, and good pillow princesses deserve treats. And the angry/joyful scream she gave was worth it, as Crowley quickly worked her own clit over, and treated herself to a sweet little orgasm, her face buried in a gorgeous delta, the most perfect stretch of body, the space between where Aziraphale's breasts rested and the round of her tummy began.

“Just wait until I'm topping you,” Aziraphale swore. “I'm going to make you watch while I fuck myself raw and not touch you at _all_ ,” she said, her voice rough, and Crowley had done that to her. Had undone her so much she was cussing her head off, had screamed through orgasms and pleasure and was so incredibly _loved_ that she felt safe doing all of this. There was, Crowley knew seriously, truly no honour in the universe greater than this: Aziraphale's whole trust.

“Can't wait, darlin',” Crowley drawled. “But you're _mine_ right now, angel.”

She hadn't expected the way Aziraphale gasped at that, the way her eyelids fluttered closed over eyes gone dark blue in her lust. The tiny, full-body twitch, and the way she bit her swollen, kiss-bruised lips.

“Mine,” Crowley repeated gently, caressing Aziraphale's face. “All mine, love, forever.” She reached over to the table that held their recovery stuff, and got the cap off of a water bottle one-handed. She took a generous swig herself, then helped Aziraphale drink. They didn't _need_ water, but it felt good, and it was good to do her angel a kindness.

“I have a present for you,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale brightened. She laughed at her angel's undisguised want; watching Aziraphale desire things unashamedly was an eternal delight, frankly. Crowley leaned over the recovery table again and snagged a small jewellery box. She opened it, and showed Aziraphale the coral-bead necklace nestled in the black velvet.

“Oh, love!” Aziraphale smiled, genuinely pleased. “It's beautiful. You're too kind to me.”

“Literally no such thing,” Crowley said, and leaned over to kiss Aziraphale's brow. “We're going to have a bit of fun with them, though, before you get them for good.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale perked up even more. “You horrid old serpent, what do you have in mind?”

Crowley just smiled and pulled the necklace from its little display case. Slowly, Revealing each bright bead, one by one. And in case Aziraphale didn't get the hint, when it was free, she reached down between her spread legs and slid her fingers over Aziraphale's vulva, dipping between the wet folds, and slipping a blunt fingertip into her.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale breathed in a fluttery voice, and Crowley felt the angel squeeze around her fingertip.

“Oh,” Crowley agreed, and moved to kneel next to Aziraphale's hips. Her feet were still flat on the bed, the only spreader bar in the history of the world with a Laura Ashley pattern forcing her legs open, exposing her dark, gorgeous vulva. Crowley had been utterly enchanted to learn all the deep patterns of Aziraphale's body, the places where milk-white skin went dusky, the way her labia fell in baroque folds, down to the way her clit was deeply hooded, how it had to be coaxed and kissed and adored a little extra.

Aziraphale was utterly exposed and vulnerable and very, very hungry about it. Crowley considered things, but didn't fancy lying on or under the bar, so it was unclipped, though the cuffs stayed around Aziraphale's ankles, in case she thought of misbehaving.

“Oh...”

“Shhh, angel, it'll be worth it,” Crowley comforted. She knelt between Aziraphale's legs and massaged the backs of her thighs, urging her legs up and open, spreading her wide. “You're so fucking beautiful,” she murmured, leaning over to kiss Aziraphale roughly, hands still working at the big muscles of her legs.

Aziraphale gasped arched into the kiss, pulling hard against the scarves holding her arms, and Crowley really got to work. She lay down, kissed one thigh then the other, pressed her face against Aziraphale's vulva, and got to work, feeding the necklace into her, one bead at a time. Using her tongue.

Well, mostly her tongue; she kept getting distracted by groans and moans and other places to kiss, so her fingertips often took over for a moment. Slow and steady though, her nose bumping Aziraphale's clit, she fed the necklace into her until only a few beads spilled out of her hole, cute and tempting, and Crowley could give her full attention over to getting Aziraphale to orgasm, licking and suckling until she felt her angel's legs tremble and Aziraphale began to shake. She'd had a little break since the last one, so Crowley expected good things.

As usual, Aziraphale didn't disappoint, moaning and tossing her head, her long silver curls damp with sweat, and she came with a great cry that Crowley felt down to her root.

“What a good angel,” she purred as Aziraphale moaned, her legs kicking a little, involuntarily. “You must be so tender here,” she continued, running the tip of one finger along the very tip of her clit.

Aziraphale cried out, raw and aching. “ _Crowley_. I'm – ah!” She twitched again, this time when Crowley squeezed her breast. “Hurts...”

“Good hurt or bad hurt?” Crowley asked, just checking in.

“Fuck you, so fucking _good_ ,” Aziraphale growled. “You _fiend_.”

Crowley cackled, and without warning, reached for the end of the necklace and pulled it out of Aziraphale, running the beads over her clit and up to rest on her belly, shiny and wet.

Aziraphale _screamed_ , and forgot to control her angelic strength, and there went the silk scarves as her body shook and oversensitive _everything_ overloaded. It was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen, and she had to bite her lip hard to keep from crying. Aziraphale had let down every barrier, everything she had built to be careful, to be unnoticed, to be left alone and safe, and _Crowley got to see it_.

“Oh, love,” she breathed, and maybe she did cry a little, because Aziraphale was sobbing her way through the orgasm, her nerves alight as she shook and cried, and Crowley gathered her close, her hold strong and diffuse, giving Aziraphale a rock to hold onto while her body jerked and stilled, then twitched again, then stilled, Aziraphale's breathing was light and even, her body vulnerable and perfectly safe in Crowley's arms.

Feeling unbelievably strong and important and powerful – this was her _best friend_ , the angel of the Eastern Gate _right there_! And she needed Crowley! – Crowley managed to keep hold of Aziraphale while tidying around them. Cuffs and torn silk were removed, but she kept the bruises; Aziraphale liked them so much. A snap of her fingers and they were both clean and dry – except for the coral necklace, now pressed between their bodies. That was still wet, and it smelled like Aziraphale, and Crowley thought she could, perhaps, borrow it for just a bit. She didn't clean it, but fastened it around her own neck, and pressed the beads to the hard line of her collarbone, and grinned.

She cuddled Aziraphale and cradled her close until she opened her eyes, and sighed, and nuzzled Crowley's bosom, sleepily kissing the top of one of her breasts.

“Hi there, angel,” Crowley said tenderly. “Do you want anything?”

Aziraphale shook her head. “Something to eat. But not right now.” She stretched, the soft folds of her body moving so gorgeously against Crowley's, and settled back in her arms. “I love you. Thank you. That doesn't even cover it, just...thank you.”  
“It was my pleasure, dove.” Crowley smiled, and played with a long curl. “You're so beautiful. Do you want me to heal the bruises, dearest?”

Aziraphale shook her head. “No, I like them.” She laid her hand on Crowley's cheek, thumb brushing over her browbone. “Hullo, beautiful.” A little kiss, her body stretching again as she reached up for it. “I love my present, but you should keep it for your own, darling. A little reminder.”

Crowley smiled and touched the necklace. “Are you just giving it away?” she teased.

“Worked for me before.” Aziraphale grinned. “You must wear it on a night out. No one will know where it's been, but us two.” She leaned in and kissed Crowley, very softly. “Every time you feel it against your skin, you can know it's been inside me. That you used it to get me off, that it's soaked with my juices.”

Crowley gave a full-body shudder, _hard_. “You filthy-mouthed thing,” she said admiringly.

“So I am.” Aziraphale snuggled close again, looking utterly angelic in Crowley's arms. “You're the most wonderful lover, Crowley. I'm so glad I get to be in love with you, and you with me.”

“Yeah,” Crowley murmured. She'd get up in a moment, get them a little nibble and some water. But in a moment. “Same, angel.” There wasn't really anything she could do to really show Aziraphale what she meant to Crowley, what all this, what her trust and her love and her friendship gave to a not-that-great demon. But she'd damn well keep trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know you all probably know this, but I feel deeply moved to remind you that Aziraphale can't get a yeast infection but HUMANS CAN. Don't put anything in a vagina that isn't clean, non-porous and safe for bodily insertion. Coral beads are basically none of these.


	30. Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale waits to be picked up for a date, and thinks.
> 
> (budding relationship, post-Armageddon)

Aziraphale slipped his cufflinks into place, admiring the baroque pearls against the white of his cuffs. What had been terribly old-fashioned, according to everyone he ever encountered, was _a la mode_ again, and he enjoyed the chance to show off a little jewellery. Especially when he had matching earrings on too. The slightest touch of colour to his lips and cheeks, and he was ready to be picked up by his gentleman caller, one Anthony Crowley (né Crawley).

It was so silly, for the two of them to court. To date. To go out. They were best friends. They'd been going to dinner together for _millennia_ , actual, literal millennia. Aziraphale usually did dress quite nicely, because he liked to dress up for Michelin-starred restaurants and holes in the wall alike. And as the being who owned a car, Crowley usually picked him up, and of course they'd come back to Aziraphale's place, because that's what they _always_ did.

So really, it was quite silly to go out courting, because thus far it had differed from being friends in precisely no ways.

Except it wasn't silly at all. It made Aziraphale's blood go all fizzy, and his heart pound a bit, and it made Crowley trip over his own feet and stammer a lot and then stop, with a sudden, bashful, vulnerable smile. Aziraphale loved that smile with all his heart, and he loved how Crowley looked at him when he was dressed to the nines, ready to be picked up and taken off to some new culinary adventure.

They were working up to kissing. Of course, they had kissed before, when it was a greeting or a promise. But they were working up to _romantic_ kissing. They were working up to not being afraid to kiss, for one. And, Aziraphale thought, perhaps working up to managing their emotions so that no one accidentally discorporated, which was still a bit what he felt like doing when he thought about putting his arms around Anthony J Crowley, pulling him in close, and kissing him properly.

He was also slightly afraid that once they started kissing, they might not stop. Not for a good year or two, anyway.

So everything was different, and they were silly, but it wasn't different, and they loved one another and there was never anything silly about that, ever.

Aziraphale checked himself in the glass again, and reckoned he was acceptable for Crowley and there, just on time, the front door opened.

“Ready to go, angel?” Gosh, he was handsome. And very nervous.

Aziraphale smiled bravely at himself, and tried to take that courage through the shop. “Of course, darling.”

They were okay at hugging without having meltdowns, although the first half-dozen times Aziraphale had nearly had a panic attack that they'd be caught and Crowley destroyed and himself carried back to Heaven. He'd mastered that fear, and learned to hold Crowley gently; firm hugs sometimes reminded him of bad things, so it was best to start soft and work their way up.

He slipped one arm around Crowley's waist, encouraging him to come as close as he liked and oh, today was a wonderful day, because Crowley went so quickly and easily into his arms, a lovely embrace, and Aziraphale felt like a blooming flower.

“You look wonderful,” Crowley murmured into his ear and right, they had to get going. There would be more hugs later. There would be _cuddles_ , perhaps, and Aziraphale smiled as wide and lovely as he knew how.

“Thank you, so do you.” He couldn't actually recall what Crowley was wearing, but he always looked wonderful, so it was true. He offered Crowley his arm, and tucked his hand close for the short walk to the Bentley, feeling beautiful and brave, out on a date with his best guy, as the youth said.


	31. Free Day (1 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: A Little Place in the Country, male-presenting Crowley, female-presenting Aziraphale, bees, softness, wing-grooming. Plz enjoy a little bonus h/c! (cw for minor injury)

“I have a present for you,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale, who had not been napping, merely resting her eyes, looked up at Crowley from where she was sunning herself on the patio.

“Ooooh,” she cooed, and smiled up at him. “I like presents.”

“I know,” he said. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

Aziraphale grinned and did so, and he popped the little bit of honeycomb between her lips. They'd had the bees for a few months now, and this was the first time Crowley had felt comfortable harvesting some of their honey. Honey made from _their_ flowers, on _their_ land, the garden that had been theirs for years now.

His angel did not disappoint. Aziraphale licked her lips and made a happy noise at the rich sweetness, tilted her head back, and sighed.

Crowley sat on the edge of her lounge chair, a vast wooden creation that was far more comfortable than it had any right to be, and followed up the little morsel with a kiss.

“Oh, that's even better,” Aziraphale said predictably, and Crowley was close enough to see little else but her big blue eyes, fringed with dark eyelashes. She had opted to be softly femme today in a linen dress, and Crowley rested his hand on her belly, and kissed her again, tasting honey on her lips.

“Darling.” She curled her hand on his hip, and returned the kiss. “You're a marvel.”

Crowley laughed and kissed her forehead. “The bees did all the hard work, and you helped with everything else, you know.” He smiled fondly at her, and touched the edge of a wing. “How's this, then?”

For Aziraphale's lounging was a little bit enforced – they had gone flying a few nights before, and stray, surprise gust of wind had flung her into a tree, fracturing some of the bones of her wing. It had proved nearly impervious to either angelic or demonic miracles, so she had simply had to splint it and wait for it to heal on its own, though of course with enough demonic miracles to hold back any pain that she sometimes felt a bit sunburnt. She had insisted that with the lack of pain, and the wing manifested but carefully splinted, bandaged and folded neatly, there was nothing keeping her from her usual chores and plans.

Crowley had given her a Look, and she had rolled her eyes, taken a book, and settled herself on one comfortable piece of furniture after another. And, all right, perhaps she was a bit tired, and perhaps this was better than if she'd tried to keep up her usual pace, but she wasn't going to _admit_ that.

“It's fine, dearest.” She squeezed his waist fondly. “Healing nicely.” There were great callouses of bone on Crowley's wings, where they had not healed nicely after his Fall, and she knew it was important to him that she not have the same.

Crowley examined the careful bandaging, but it must have passed muster, for he nodded, and kissed her cheek. “Good.” He caressed the feathers of her unhurt wing, and she sighed and relaxed a little more, eyes drifting shut again.

“Poor dove,” Crowley murmured, straightening a few feathers, fingers soft and easy on her wings, and Aziraphale relaxed muscles she didn't even know she had.

“Poor my arse,” she mumbled, and grinned when Crowley laughed, enjoying the way his body shook against hers. “I'm the luckiest being in the world. Oh, that feels _wonderful_.”

“I know,” Crowley said, still grooming her good wing. It was mostly neat – having her wings out meant he could do this just about whenever he wanted – but there was always a little straightening to do. And of course when her broken wing healed, there would be much to fuss over. But that was still in the future, so he contented himself with smoothing already-neat feathers and watching her shoulders ease, her whole body go soft and happy.

“You know I'm the only angel who reacts like this?” she murmured, already half-asleep.

“Well, yeah. 'Cause you're the best of them,” Crowley said. One hand buried in her wing, the other on her cheek, thumb caressing under one eye, loving her as hard as he could.

“Shut _up_ ,” she mumbled, but she was smiling, so Crowley didn't, teasing her to sleep. Once asleep, he made sure Aziraphale was comfortable; no blanket needed with the sun like this, but he slipped the book out from under her thigh and set it nearby, and gently folded her good wing. And settled down himself; the garden was set, the bees were taking care of themselves, and he had nothing else to do but sit here and amuse himself while Aziraphale napped, and if that wasn't perfect, he didn't know what was.


	32. Free Day (2 of 4)

Crowley closed the worn leather cover, and went to set the book aside, thought better, and handed it right back to Aziraphale, who was hugging _Ballad_ to his chest. In the time it had taken him to read _The Happy Prince_ , there had been a few adjustments to their little nook. The sun had set, of course, and the lamps lit the space with a warm, golden glow. Aziraphale had at some point gotten or manifested a blanket, and was snuggled underneath it, for some definition of snuggled that preserved his excellent posture. But he seemed easier, and a smile danced around his lips, so Crowley was contented. And, of course, there was tea, both for Crowley's throat and simply for the comfort of them both.

“Shall I switch to wine?” Aziraphale asked with a fond chuckle.

“Never say no to that – no, don't get up!” Crowley protested, as Aziraphale sat up with a badly-concealed groan. “Angel, I think I know where your stash is by now.”

Aziraphale lay back down and smiled at him. He'd managed to pile up a blanket and some pillows so he could sit half-upright but still relax, and Crowley aimed to make sure he stayed that way.

He knew where  _all_ of Aziraphale's stashes were, and opted to treat them both to a particularly nice rioja that only needed a bit of dusting before he opened the bottle. Poured into glasses, one handed over, Crowley permitted himself a short break before starting in on the next book.

“Fancy a nibble, then?” he asked, and managed to not drop his wineglass when Aziraphale shook his head.

“Are you sure you're all right?” he asked, even more concerned now. What had they _done_ to his – that is, to the angel? Aziraphale wasn't his. Aziraphale didn't belong to anyone but himself.

Aziraphale smiled at him, and breathed in the smell of the wine, then sipped it. “Oh ho, you found that bottle, did you? And yes, my dear, I'm...I will be all right,” he said quietly. “Please don't worry over me.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Crowley said automatically, and cringed a little – he hadn't meant to sound like a child.

Aziraphale's smile only grew. “Do forgive me, then. But truly. This...will pass.” He sighed, and shifted. “It always does.”

“What can I do to help?” Crowley asked.

“Oh my dear! You're a marvel.” Aziraphale pushed himself up a little more, and his smile was something to behold. “I couldn't ask for more than to be read to, and to have your company, truly.”

“Mmm.” Crowley could think of a whole lot else he could do, including never leaving Aziraphale's side and defending him against any sniff of Heaven, but that...would not be welcome. So instead he topped up Aziraphale's glass, and settled the blanket more comfortably about him, ignoring his friend's exclamations over how he didn't need to be _fussed_ over.

(Aziraphale needed to be fussed over and spoiled and petted every day, and twice on Sundays, was Crowley's private belief.)

He retrieved  _That Ballad of Reading Gaol_ while he was up, and opened it carefully, not wanting to damage a book that was so precious so many times over. Crowley had never met Robbie, and was a little sorry about that; he would have to ask Aziraphale for stories later, when he was well again. Until then, he carefully opened to the first page, took a sip of wine, and began again to read aloud to the angel cuddled up on the sofa. 


	33. Free Day (3 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Something with the partners at Pride? ️ 
> 
> (A Little Place in the Country-verse, female-presenting Aizraphale, genderqueer!Crowley, disabled!Crowley. Set a year or so after the story itself.)

“Oh, bless you, dear,” Aziraphale said when she spotted the bag Damien was carrying. “You didn't have to bring anything, though. We've got enough to feed half the city here as it is.”

“You _know_ Mother would rise from her grave if I showed up to a party empty-handed,” Damien told her, in between kissing one cheek, then the other – then stealing a kiss on her lips that left her giggling and blushing while she ushered him in. “And you do not want to be haunted by that lady.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes and took the box of pastries, adding it to the already-groaning table. Afternoon Tea at A.Z. Fell & Co. was the most exclusive after-party in the city on Pride, or would have been if anyone except those who were invited, or found their way there, knew about it. Aziraphale liked Pride well enough, but she liked the quiet of the bookshop and then the noise of the bookshop filled with those she loved best even more. And it was a nice place to hide out, when the crowds became overwhelming for some of her children.

“You know Mircea, and this is his child, Cristina,” she said, introducing her other early guests. She had met them when Cristina came home one day and announced they were genderqueer and pan, and Mircea had found her shop when desperately looking for some kind of resource to be a supportive father. She had welcomed them both into her heart, and enjoyed the chance to practise her Romanian with them in the bargain.

She left the three of them chatting happily over tea, and checked her brand-new mobile again. Crowley had insisted she get one for events like these, when they were apart but wanted to keep in touch easily and they couldn't just leave their phone with her. She had finally only agreed a few days ago, and all right, it was a  _bit_ handy. And nice when Crowley sent her a picture someone had taken of them, blowing her a kiss from the midst of a colourful crowd.

There was also a heads-up that they were heading back to the shop, and did she need them to pick up anything on the way?

_Good Lord, no, we have too much here as it is!_ She'd texted back, and gotten a little kiss emoji that made her go a bit pink.

Indeed, not fifteen minutes later, the door of the shop was flung open in a riot of colour and happy chatter, and a pile of her darlings – Crowley at the head of course – invaded.

Aziraphale laughed and was first up, her arms coming around Crowley's waist. They were on crutches today, painted up in rainbows of course, so she'd have to wait for a hug back but the kiss they gave her left her starry-eyed. And she wasn't lacking for skin contact – Crowley was wearing hotpants and a crop top and essentially nothing else, and looked  _very_ good in it. 

Aziraphale held them a beat longer, face pressed against Crowley's cheek in a long kiss, loving them with all her might.

“Happy Pride, angel,” Crowley whispered to her. “I love you.”

Aziraphale just smiled, unable to speak for a moment, then kissed Crowley again, and found her voice to make sure everyone got a little blessing with their hug.

“Evelyn, darling, how many babies did you shock today?” she asked warmly. The older woman was dressed more or less identically to Crowley, and looked just as good, too.

Evelyn cackled, and they hugged before Aziraphale went on to greet Aelis and Annie, kissing them both firmly and making sure Aelis had enough room to get around. Then Bee and the rest of Crowley's little band of hoodlums, all of them cuddled and kissed and settled, and Ezra and Teddy and a half-dozen new children, stragglers that Crowley had picked up and adopted that day, because her demon loved her just that much. She welcomed them warmly and got them settled with water or tea or whatever they liked, before taking her place beside Crowley on the loveseat that was sacred to them.

“Get over here,” Crowley drawled, and hauled her into their lap with a little shriek from Aziraphale. She giggled and snuggled close, her love's arms tight around her, the heat of the summer day pouring off of Crowley's body, absorbed by the cool linen of her suit. She was in pale colours as usual, but wore a green carnation pinned to her waistcoat collar. 

“Happy Pride,” she told them, and kissed them soft and slow. How the world changed, and how they changed with it! How proud she was of them, and they of her, and how she loved her children beyond anything!

They had a moment just for them, to be close and tender and quiet in the face of their own love for one another – and then Aziraphale looked up, and was drawn into the riot of voices and laughter, someone passing her a loaded-up plate to share with Crowley, and she basked in her God-given role, and plunged into the nearest conversation with abandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward admission: so, I actually really mostly can't stand Pride, although props to TransPride in Seattle for being warm and welcoming and getting me to actually enjoy myself. No cops, no corporations, for us and by us, and I tried to make Aziraphale's Pride party reflect that.


	34. Free Day (4 of 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe as Topaz/Stone/Silver, though before Crowley's fall, or either of their transitions. Aziraphale has something important he wants to tell Crowley.
> 
> (He's in love with her. It's not really surprising, but it is very important indeed.)

Three months and three days. That's how long Aziraphale had been dating Crowley. Three months and three days since Crowley (always Crowley, she hated her first name, and Aziraphale didn't blame her, it didn't suit her in the least) had been the brave one and held his hands and kissed him. And he had kissed back, careful as could be. 

But now he reckoned it was his turn to be brave. And also, he loved her, and she deserved to know. She'd been through some shit, his darling, mostly for the stupid reason that her eyes a little odd-looking.  _Colobama_ , it was called, and it gave her long, thin pupils. Combined with her tawny irises, she'd come in for plenty of bullying when they were kids. 

Aziraphale had protected her as best he could, but really she'd done a better job of protecting herself. Still did, although he'd obviously learned to throw a nasty glare with the best of them, should she get looks on the rare occasions she showed her eyes in public. And of course they'd got some snickering from the biggest plonkers out there. Aziraphale knew he was punching above his weight, but not because he was a chubby, old-fashioned bloke dating the most beautiful woman alive – although that was true as well – it was just... _Crowley_ . Every part of her was breathtaking, even the annoying parts. So he didn't  _disagree_ with the snickers that occasionally came when they were together, but he didn't like them either, and gloried in doing what he could to show the idiots how they were, truly, perfectly matched.

Aziraphale shook himself, and sighed. Woolgathering, because he was nervous. Of course he knew Crowley loved him back, they were best friends, but. Well. Did she  _love_ love him?

“You are being a prat,” he told his reflection, and wiped the last of the shaving cream away. He did like to be very clean-shaven; he thought it made him look neat and tidy and soft in a good way. And, well, to be blunt, it made going down on Crowley an awful lot nicer for her. The insides of her thighs were surprisingly tender.

Thinking about going down on Crowley had him smiling, and gave him a little courage when he heard her let herself into the bookshop. Of course she had her own key, especially useful when the shop was closed, which was...a lot of the time, he could admit.

“Zira?” she called.

“Coming, darling,” he called over his shoulder, checked his reflection one more time, and jogged down the spiral staircase to meet her with a hug and kiss.

“You look beautiful,” he told her. She was wearing a _sharp_ suit, her hair freshly-cut and aflame in the evening light, and her makeup flawless. 

“Thank you,” she said, preening, and cuddled into his arms. “You look good too, angel.” A kiss on his cheek, and he threw caution to the wind. Fuck waiting for the right time. Fuck their nice dinner, and nice drinks, and a walk through the park and coming back to his for a glass of wine and making love and tumbling together into his bed. All of that would happen, but it could happen with her knowing –

“I love you,” he said, because he did, and because Crowley deserved to know she was loved.

She startled, eyes going huge. He loved her eyes so much, gold and black, and uniquely hers.

“Aziraphale...”

“You don't have to say anything back,” he said softly. “But I want you to know. I love you.”

“You fucking idiot,” she said, her voice thick. She hugged him hard, their bodies pressed together, hers hard and lean against his softness. “I love you. I love you, angel.”

“Oh,” he said, and the meaning of her words hit, and he gave a full-body shiver. “Crowley. Oh.”

“It can _not_ be a surprise,” she said, laughing.

“It isn't!” he tried to protest, and realised he was tearing up, but he was pretty sure she was too. “It's just. You love me.”

She pulled back to look him in the eyes, and sniffled. “Yeah,” she said. “I really do. 'n you love me.” His precious girl, her eyes were so bright and a little too wet. “You love me.”

“With all my heart,” he said, smiling at his best friend. Fuck – no matter what happened in their lives, he was the luckiest human alive, with Crowley as his beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're done! What a month! What a show! I love you all, now I'm going to go outside and do something other than write these lovely darlings for a few minutes....

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> [dietraumerei.tumblr.com](dietraumerei.tumblr.com)


End file.
